A World Alone
by dampish
Summary: (BOOK I) Almost two years after the world was remolded into a cold, unforgiving wasteland, a teenager struggles with finding a purpose; with finding a reason, any reason, to keep going. When a change of fate sends him to a prison settlement with survivors just like him, he must confront the demons of his past - aided by those who may or may not have demons of their own. (S4-S5B)
1. One: Smother

_**Chapter One: Smother**_

" _In the darkness I will meet my creators,_

 _and they will all agree_

 _that I'm a_

 _Suffocator."_

* * *

In the middle of a forest sits a shack.

This shack, which could very well be at least four or five decades old, belongs to the trees; roots are coiled around the foundation, branches curve through the broken windows, and a canopy of leaves keeps most of the already sun-kissed wood shaded and cool. On the porch, a single rocking chair is accompanied by wind chimes. Inside, dirt is scattered throughout the chipped flooring, caked into crevices and pressed into cracks. A chair sits in the corner of the room, surrounded with melted candles and books filled by dog-eared pages. Sunlight shines through both windows, illuminating the small structure. This place is old, run down, on the verge of collapse. it's looked to be on its last edges for the last decade, but I'm sure it'll be okay for a while now.

The Sun itself is merciful towards nature here; it is within these trees where I feel safe. At peace. Away from all harm, away from all pain, and away from everything the world has made itself to be.

This shack, this place, is where I suddenly decided to kill myself.

I haven't found peace in a long while - not since the dead became not-dead and city sounds died out along with humanity. I can't explain _why_ I've been overcome with the sudden urge to end my own life - obsessed with the simple question of why it isn't worth it to keep moving on. I'm alone - have been for quite some time - with only ghosts and the Husks to keep me company. This prior winter, the second one to befall Georgia after the Plague, has kept my bones stiff and my skin cold. My heart is cold. The Earth and Her People are frozen, beyond return. I'm not sure that I believe this entirely; but, at this moment, it seems like an enticing ideology.

As I make my way to one of the broken windows, a hand resting on the hilt of my machete, I glance around the surrounding area. While the air is cold and the leaves have all fallen from the trees, a layer of frost has melted into the ground thanks to the Sun. I think it's March - just after the Second Winter. March is a nice month. A nice month to die in too.

I decide not to use my machete, or my switchblade, or the other two knives that I've collected over time. I'm out of bullets for my revolver, but that would be too messy anyway.

After a moment of searching, I take a rock from the ground, then toss it at one of the windows; glass shatters, cracking and splintering and making pretty shapes. I walk forward, pry a large shard from the window sill- it slices open my palm, and while I hiss in pain and flinch at it, I get it loose eventually. Droplets of blood trickle down my palm.

For a moment, a time that goes from seconds to minutes to maybe even hours, I stare at it. I contemplate. I think. Then, I walk to the nearest tree, sit down beside it, and pull two things from my backpack; a half empty bottle of whiskey and a picture. Like the shard of glass, I stare at this picture, until tears prick the corner of my eyes and I can't look at it anymore. I drink all of the whiskey; it takes me a while, since it's been a while and I've never had whiskey before, but soon enough it's all gone and everything is fuzzy. I'm not sure what being drunk is like, or if I'm even drunk at all, but everything feels… easier.

I roll up the sleeve on my left arm, and, as calmly as I can, I bring the glass shard against my wrist.

There is a moment; a millisecond, the time between _Then_ and _Now_ , which is spent with the realization that I maybe should have thought this through. Maybe. Possibly. I think so, even though blood has blossomed and is trailing down my arm. I get scared, so I sing to myself. I'm crying. I've been crying. I can't stop crying, even though I've already done what's been entertaining my mind for the past couple of minutes.

" _You're so impulsive,"_ A voice tells me. I nod in agreement.

Seconds pass. Minutes. While everything feels fuzzier, lighter and darker at the same time, nothing changes. Maybe it wasn't deep enough. Do I want it to be deep enough? I'm still singing to myself.

Suddenly, I hear something crack to my left- leaves, maybe a twig. I look over, my head swiveling to the side; a Husk has spotted me. She has long, blonde hair, a gray t-shirt, and torn up jeans. I think of my mother and cry harder. I do nothing to stop the Husk. From behind her, three more Husks appear. I start to think about them; becoming one of them. I don't want that. I don't think so. Everything is foggy. It feels wrong. I feel wrong. _What's happening? Is this what dying feels like?_

Just as the blonde haired Husk is a couple of feet away, I suddenly decide to stand up; in the end, I'm wobbly and I think I'm seeing double, but it's enough for me to ram the glass shard into the Husk's eye. Pieces splinter off and prick my skin, but I barely notice it because when her body tumbles it takes me with it.

I fall backwards, hit the ground with a thud. Something connects with the back of my head and I hear someone shout. It's probably just my brain, my mind, playing tricks on me. It wouldn't be the first time.

Someone else shouts, and I think I see the face of a ghost before-

* * *

" _He's bleeding, is it a bite-"_

" _No, a cut. Looks like it's already clottin'- shit, walkers. Help me pull him up. Sasha, grab his bag."_

" _Wait, did he do it to himself?"_

" _... We can ask him that when he wakes up. How far is it to the road?"_

" _Two minutes, maybe three?"_

" _Okay, I'm gonna hoist him up over my shoulders, and…"_

* * *

" _You got him?"_

" _Yeah, his bag's in too. Oh fuck, the herd-"_

" _I know, I know! Just gotta…"_

* * *

" _Glenn, Sasha, what's happening? Who is that?"_

" _Some kid Daryl an' me found, looked like he had a screw loose. Think he was trying to kill himself. He fell, hit his head just after we saw him. Went down taking out a walker."_

" _Jesus… Dr. S isn't here now, get him into the infirmary. I'll see what I can do."_

" _Is… did he slit his wrist?"_

" _... Beth, go get my medical kit. He could have a concussion, and that…"_

* * *

" _He should be okay for now."_

" _... we should talk to him when we wakes up."_

" _I know. I'll make sure he's fit to talk to the Council."_

" _That's not the kinda talk I'm talkin' about…"_

" _I know. I know."_

* * *

I wake up but pretend I'm still asleep. My head hurts, a dull throb behind my eyes. I blink them open, and when I notice other people in the dark room I close them shut. I don't think they saw me. I hope they didn't.

"What if he's violent? Sasha said he was actin' crazy, that he was mumbling and crying loud."

"Dehydration. His backpack didn't have any food or water. Daryl said there was an empty whiskey bottle beside him. You know how alcohol changes people, daddy…"

"But still. We know nothing about him. I'm not leavin' you here with this boy alone."

"What's he gonna do? He doesn't even look like he's older than Patrick, and all Patrick does is play with legos and bug Carl. … He's handcuffed to the bed, daddy. He can't even step a foot away from it."

 _I am?_ Realization hits me once I notice that my arm is raised up above my head. _Oh. I am._

"... Fine. But you get someone as soon as he wakes up, alright?"

"I will, I promise."

A moment of silence, before footsteps echo into out into nothing. I hear someone take a few steps closer to me, then metal slides against concrete. I hear someone sit down. My heart beat thumps in my ears. Am I breathing too loud?

"You can stop pretending that you're asleep now."

I was breathing too loud. Shit, I was breathing too loud. Fuck. _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-_

"I saw you open your eyes earlier… and you're kinda hyperventilatin'."

"Oh," I say. I haven't even opened my eyes. I open them.

It's dark. Sorta. There's light, but it's pale and gray. Everything looks gray. I think I'm in a bunk bed of some kind. The walls are concrete, cracked and chipped with doodles that have faded into illegible markings.

I decide to turn my head and blink. There's a girl, with long blonde hair (tied up into a ponytail) and kind blue eyes. She's wearing a gray cardigan and looks to be close to my age; maybe a year or two older. Her arms are folded over her stomach and she's leaning forward in an metal, fold out chair. She is staring at me.

"You're staring at me," I blurt out, not meaning to say it. The girl smiles a little but doesn't comment on my loose filter.

"How are you feeling? They said you hit your head."

I blink. Blink again, and even though she asked about my head, my attention is brought to the stinging in my wrist. I glance down at it where it lies over my stomach. A bandage is wrapped around most of my hand and wrist. I notice my bag sitting in the corner of the room.

"Hurts," I answer. The girl nods.

"We'll check it out soon," she says, uncrossing her arms. "I'm Beth, by the way."

"Where am I?" I ask. Maybe Beth was expecting me to reply with my own name but I don't wanna- not yet, at least.

"A place."

"What kind of place?"

"One with people."

"Is it big?"

"It can be."

I sit up; slow and steady, since my head still hurts. The handcuffs clink and clank as I move my arm around. Beth watches me. I try not to feel awkward. It doesn't work.

"There was a man earlier."

"Yeah, that's one of the doctors."

"' _One of'?"_

Beth shrugs, then a small grin appears on her face as she glances through the doorway. "Sorta. He's a vet."

"A veteran?" I ask. Beth shakes her head.

"Veterinarian. But he can work some magic."

"Was he the one that patched me up?"

"You gonna keep asking questions without answerin' them?"

I blink. Wait a second. Breathe. "Ask away."

A second passes as Beth contemplates. She glances at my wrist, the one with the bandage. I think she's going to ask me about it. What do I say? What do I even think about it? I don't know. I hope she doesn't bring it up. I really, really hope. Beth makes eye contact with me, then asks, "Your name?"

I blink. "Does it matter?"

"Names always matter."

Inhale, exhale. "Tim. Like Tim Allen? But without the Allen part. Yeah. I'm Tim."

Beth stares at me for a moment. "Yes. He's the one that 'patched you up'. My dad."

My turn to glance at the doorway. Outside I can't see much; more gray, more concrete. It looks lifeless, but at the same time… spirited. "Does he have the key to this?" I move my arm around and clink-clank the handcuffs. Clink-clank. Clink-clank. _Silence._

Beth shakes her head, but before she can say anything, footsteps approach the room and someone appears in the doorway.

A woman, with short brown hair, a tall frame, who appears to be in her early-twenties walks in. She looks at Beth, then me, then Beth again. "He's up? Any nausea, fever?"

"As far as I can tell, no," Beth replies. The woman glances at me. I meet her eyes, then look at the pistol on her hip. Look back at her eyes. She pulls something out of her pocket- a key, I notice, just before she tosses it to me. Somehow, I manage to catch it with one hand.

"Good. Dad wants to take a look at him before the Council talk."

"Council?" I ask, unlocking the handcuff from around my wrist. The woman doesn't reply, instead backing out of the doorway. Beth stands up from her chair, stepping towards the exit, and I take this as my cue to stand up from the bunk. My unbandaged wrist is raw and sore, but I ignore it in favor of following the two women.

Outside, the brown-haired woman and another man wait. The man, who looks to be the same height and age as the woman, has jet black hair and appears to be asian. He, too, has a pistol at his waist. I hesitate for a moment as I glance around the hallway; the walls, floors, and even the roof are a dull gray, made of concrete and drywall. I look up and see a door made of metal bars. It reminds me of-

 _Oh._

A prison. It's a prison.

* * *

" _I sometimes wish I'd stayed inside,_

 _my Mother,_

 _never to come out…"_

* * *

 _ **so after a few weeks of consideration and endless hours of writing and editing, i decided publishing this. it isn't much, but there'll definitely be more soon. hopefully. i won't begin an uploading schedule because anyone who knows me as an author KNOWS that i suck at it.**_

 _ **i'm sorry to anyone that may have been triggered by the attempted suicide scene, but it's vital to his story. i hope it doesn't deter anyone from reading (since it's one of the only scenes like this that i'll write) and that you stick around for more!**_


	2. Two: Something for your MIND

_**Chapter Two: Something For Your M.I.N.D.**_

" _I know you think I'm a sociopath,_

' _My lovely prey,'_

 _I'm a cliche,_

 _make way, I'm in my Pepsi mood…"_

* * *

I've never been in a prison before, but based on whatever I've seen on TV, this matches the description. There's barely any windows, dust coating the concrete, and echoes pressing through the bare silence. It's cold in the hallway; the others are waiting for me. Beth and the two young adults watch me closely, until the woman starts walking. Beth waves me forward, so I follow and we walk side by side. I don't fail to notice the man lagging behind.

"You live in a prison?" I ask, my eyes darting around the hallway briefly; it exits into a large, tall room with two floors and barred windows. One wall is lined with cells, on both floors, with a staircase and a guard post. Only a few of the cells look lived in, just barely, and each of them are spaced apart. On the farthest wall, just above a large doorway there are letters that most likely spelled out " _ **D BLOCK"**_ but with the _**C**_ faded out and missing.

"For a few months now, yeah," Beth explains. "It's not the most homey of places, but it's got walls and a roof. Maybe a story or two."

I glance at her then, because Beth seems like she's a nice person and I don't want to be mean so I blurt out, "I lied."

Beth looks over at me. "What?"

"I- um, my name. It's not really Tim. I mean, Tim is a nice name and all, but. Not mine. I just- well, I don't know you, and it felt weird to tell you my name because you can never really be too careful with strangers. Yeah. Uh. Sorry. I'm sorry."

Beth watches me as we keep walking. The woman up front has only glanced back once, and it was only to share a look with the Asian man.

"So, what really is your name?" Beth asks. I'm not sure if that was the response that I was expecting- was I even expecting one? I don't know. Oh well.

"Michael," I answer. Truthfully this time. "You can call me Michael."

Beth smiles a little bit. "Alright. Michael it is."

After we leave D Blok, I'm led through another set of hallways and into another room identical to the previous one; this one, however, looks more lived in, with sheets and blankets instead of barred doors. There's hardly any dirt or dust on the floors, and it smells of pine trees in here. Almost every cell has been occupied. This room has been titled _**C BLOCK,**_ evidently.

Instead of going deeper into C Block, the brown haired woman leads us to one of the first cells. Inside, it appears to be some kind of infirmary. There's a bed, a table cluttered with medical supplies, and an older man sitting in a fold-out chair. His hair is white from age, with a beard covering his lower face that oddly reminds me of Santa Claus. As we enter, the old man looks up from his desk and smiles warmly.

"Welcome," he says, looking around at the four of us. His eyes land on me. "I'm Hershel. Our friends told me that you took quite a fall yesterday. How are you feeling?"

Yesterday? Was I asleep for a whole day?

"I'm, uh, alright," I reply. "I'm Michael."

Hershel nods. "Well, Michael, would you mind having a seat on the bed?" He turns to the others. "Could we have some privacy?"

The man and woman both hesitate, but Beth just nods and smiles. After a moment, all three of them leave, and while it's nice to have less eyes on me, I'm still cautious. I sit down on the bed.

"So. Any nausea, fatigue? Dizziness?" Hershel asks. I shake my head.

"My head hurts a little bit, but no. I feel fine."

Hershel looks me over for a second, then motions to my wrist. "May I take a look at that?"

I'm silent. Briefly, because I know that I'll have to answer him. I wanna say no, but what kind of hospitality would that be?

I nod, then hold out my arm. Hershel uses a pair of scissors to cut a part of the bandage, then gently begins unwrapping it. I look away just before he finishes. Mistakes are hard to face.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hershel examine the slice. I count three seconds that pass, before he seemingly nods to himself then looks up at me. I want to break eye contact but don't.

"I know we're strangers and all, Michael but it would be wrong of me not to ask-"

"No," I interrupt, finally breaking eye contact. I stare at the wall behind the old man. "I'm not gonna try again. I-... I don't even know if I wanted it to work the first time. Things, they just… they get hard. I wanted it to be easy. I made a mistake."

Hershel watches me for a few moments. His eyes are piercing, but warm, and I don't know how that makes me feel because I'm briefly reminded of wisdom. _Whatever that means..._

"Alright," he finally says, then gets to work. Hershel is gentle as he cleans it, then spreads some kind of antibiotic cream over the cut; as he wraps my wrist in gauze, he explains, "There were only a few places that were deep enough for stitches, so I only had to put in four. It'll leave a scar, but you're lucky you didn't knick a major artery."

I nod, then remember to say, "Thank you. Um- for everything. It's… it's been a while since I've had any human contact."

Hershel smiles warmly. "You're welcome." He looks over at the doorway, then calls, "Glenn?"

The Asian man from earlier reappears in the doorway. "Yeah?"

Hershel motions at me. "He's good to go. Has the rest of the council gathered?"

Glenn nods, then leaves, and Hershel stands from his seat. I notice his movement is a little off balance, but he seems to know this and recovers easily. I don't comment on it as I stand as well.

"Follow me, please." Hershel leads me out of the infirmary, and we turn to go deeper into C Block. There are people here - while not that many, it's enough for me to feel a little uneasy with eyes on me. The brown haired woman is in here, looking over some kind of map with two others that I haven't seen before. Beth is sitting at a table, holding something in her arms; I realize suddenly that it's a baby. While I almost stop in my tracks from mere shock, I manage to keep following Hershel. When Beth notices us, she looks up at me and smiles, but I'm unable to respond before we've already left C Block.

We pass three new faces as Hershel and I make our way down another hallway. They look clean, without any bruises or cuts or bags under their eyes, and while it's refreshing to see that I still find it hard to trust. It seems too… good.

We come to a set of double doors, which enters into a large room. The floor is carpeted; barred windows allow sunlight to illuminate the walls. Shelves upon shelves are lined with books of all shapes and sizes. This must be a library.

At the end of the room, sitting at the at a long stretch of table, are four adults. I recognize Glenn from earlier, who has just now sat down at the very end; he's taken a seat beside a younger woman, maybe in her early thirties, with dark skin and short brown curls tied into a bun. On the other side of an empty chair sits a man with a leather vest and an intimidating stern expression on his features. Beside him, an older woman with short gray hair watches me carefully. Hershel goes to sit down at the table, and one chair is on the opposite side of it. He motions for me to sit. I do.

"Michael, this is Sasha, Daryl, and Carol - you've already met Glenn," Hershel begins. Each of them give me their own greeting - Glenn waves, Carol smiles politely, and Daryl and Sasha both nod quietly. I try to smile back, with my hands clasped together in my lap. "Daryl and Sasha were the ones who found you in the forest," Hershel clarifies. Whatever smile I had falls as I glance between the two of them.

"Oh," I say. Sasha leans forward in her chair.

"Look- we're not gonna ask about your arm, or whatever was going on when we saw you- we just wanna know if you're… well, stable. Enough to where you don't put our people in danger by being here."

I shake my head. "I'm not a danger to your group- I don't wanna be." Sasha doesn't respond, but something changes in her stare.

"We'd like to know some things about you, Michael," Carol explains. I look over at her. "Nothing too personal, just some basics."

"Oh, uh- yeah, sure. Go ahead, ask whatever you like."

"Do you have a group that might be looking for you?" Glenn asks. I shake my head.

"I've been alone since last fall," I say, pretending not to notice when my voice cracks under the immense pressure that the statement holds. _Alone._ The five of them exchange glances with one another.

"Any family who could still be out there?"

Something tightens in my throat. I shake my head again. "No. Not that I know of."

They look at each other again, the five of them nod.

"How many of the dead have you killed?" Sasha asks. I'm caught off guard by this question, but answer nonetheless. I shrug.

"I don't know. I lost count around the first winter."

"How many people have you killed?" Glenn asks. I freeze up for a moment.

"None."

Daryl sits up. "Why?"

I think for a moment. I glance at the books, then at the table.

"Everyone else is too busy killing each other. I just haven't had to yet."

They ask me a few more questions; like Carol said, basic things. It feels somewhat like a job interview, I'd say, even though I've never had one of those before. It goes on for a few more minutes, until I'm politely asked to wait outside. I go. I lean against the wall, fiddling with my hands nervously. I think they're talking about letting me join their group; it's something that makes me anxious. What if I answered wrong? What if I answered too right?

I sigh. Forcefully, I think, but I don't care. Nobody is around to see it.

For a while, I'm alone in the hallway, left with my thoughts and the dust.

The door opens. Glenn pokes his head around the corner. "Come on in."

I follow him inside. He sits, I sit. They all watch me for a moment. I watch them back.

"Michael, would you like to stay here with us?" Hershel asks after a moment. "We've been going strong for a couple of months now- since late last year, actually. There's food, water, new clothes. Even your own bed, in your own room. Granted, it'll be a cell, but-"

"Yes," I blurt out, nodding. So what if it's a prison cell? So what if it's gray and dark and a little dusty? There are _walls._ People. Food, water, clothes, like Hershel said. "Yes. I would."

Hershel smiles then, gentle and warm, and he nods. "Good."

* * *

Glenn shows me the way back to the cell I woke up in, which he says is mine now. In D Blok, there are only 6 other taken cells, mostly on the top floor - but I like the bottom. Stairs are overrated anyways.

"I'll bring some blankets and pillows for the bunk," Glenn says now, watching me examine the cell. "The bed's a little hard on the back, and it can be lumpy in some spots, but you get used to it after a while."

I nod, looking up at a corner. There's a doodle of a large breasted woman up there. Glenn shifts the weight on his feet, smiling a little bit. "We've got running showers, too…"

I stare at him. I blink, unsure of what he said. But I know I heard him right. _Please don't be lying to me._

* * *

Glenn wasn't lying. Oh my god Glenn wasn't lying.

The water isn't the warmest that I'd like, and all they have is some bar soap, and I'm basically naked without any walls to keep anyone from seeing _everything_ in the bathrooms, but _ohmyfuckinggodGlennwasn'tlying._ I don't think I've had a proper cleaning all winter, which meant I was relying completely on deodorant and cheap cologne to keep from smelling like an outhouse.

I ran out of that stuff two weeks ago, by the way.

I spend at least twenty minutes under the water; I scrub everywhere hard enough to make my skin raw and pink, but it's worth it. It's so, so damn worth it.

The mirrors aren't the best to look at. Not because they're broken or messed up or anything, but it just shows me how much I've changed since the last time I saw my reflection. My cheeks are sunken in, my hair is longer. Darker, somehow. I don't know how but my skin got pale; time in the sun should fix that.

 _This is a new beginning,_ I think to myself before I sigh. _A second chance._

"Don't mess this up," I tell my reflection, then turn to the clothes Glenn brought.

* * *

" _Mama needs food, how about a barbecue?_

 _For us the bourgeoisie, so carefree_

 _Remember when we?_

 _I don't know what it means to get by…_

 _Something for your mind."_

* * *

 _ **a/n: throwback to when it was easy coming up with characters names...**_

 _ **April 3rd 2019 edit: wow i suck at this lmfao anyways thanks for reading this garbage**_


	3. Three: No Better

_**Chapter Three: No Better**_

" _Go all the way,  
have your fun, have it all,  
so take it down."_

* * *

Three days really aren't a lot if you think about it.

See, for some reason, I always counted Friday as a weekend day; it _was_ the last day of the week before workers and students got off for two days. But it was still a working day - one that most of the time was spent wishing it were Saturday. That's weird, I think. Friday has a bunch of songs, even movies dedicated to it - but everyone is always waiting for Saturday?

Odd, but I digress.

It's been three days since I woke up in D Blok, and four since Daryl and Sasha found me in the woods. That entire ordeal was explained to me by Glenn, who elaborated that he and the other two had been on a quick supply run just a few miles West of the Prison. He'd stayed with their car while Daryl and Sasha went searching. Blind luck had them heading my way, because apparently they would've overlooked my area had it not been for the cluster of Husks thirsting at me.

Again, I digress. Now, I'm standing the courtyard, dressed in clean clothes and boots that actually fit. Some of the group members are out in the Yard, an expansive area with grass and a small river just beyond the fences. They're constructing what looks like a pig pen. Two watchtowers, one with scorch marks and a few holes in its walls, are on either side of the fence corners.

"How are you liking it so far?" Someone asks from behind me. Doing my best not to look startled, I swivel on my heels and see a scrawny teenage boy with brown curls and glasses too big for his face. He looks sixteen, maybe. "When I first got here, it took some getting used to- well, with it being a prison and all, but. It gets nice after a while."

I nod. "Uh, yeah. It's nice, so far."

He smiles and reaches out a hand. "I'm Patrick."

We shake. "Michael."

Behind Patrick, I notice a couple of kids are chasing each other around. He comes to stand beside me and I turn to face the Yard. A man is out there, plowing the small garden that's probably just now thawing out from the winter. For some reason, I think he shouldn't be there. _Farming._ He doesn't look like a farmer. Beside him, a boy helps - reluctantly, I notice. They look similar. Maybe they're father and son.

"I've been here for a couple of months," Patrick says. "Daryl and Michonne found me in an old meat locker."

Michonne. I recognize the name, having heard it in conversation between Hershel and Daryl; though I haven't seen the woman yet.

"What about you?"

I hesitate. "Daryl and Sasha. Found me in the woods." I leave out the part about trying to kill myself. Patrick nods.

"Daryl's pretty cool, huh?" He says, almost to himself, so I don't reply. I cross my arms. Down by the fences, the Cleaners continue to take out the cluster of walkers that have appeared on the West side. I recognize Maggie, the brunette who helped lead me to the infirmary, with them.

Suddenly, I hear shouting; from the front of the Yard, near the gates (a pair of two solitary-cell doors welded together) two people rush to the front and begin pulling ropes. The gates open, and in rides Daryl on his motorcycle; a few moments later, someone else is through the gates. A woman with dark skin and dreadlocks gallops inside- well, her horse does, but the way she commands its movements might as well say otherwise. I take notice of how the farmer and his son perk up at her arrival; they both rush up the hill.

"That's Michonne," Patrick says. I simply nod and suddenly the space beside me has been taken by another figure; Beth. She says nothing, but the expression on her face says she's just as excited as the farmer and his son to see Michonne. Once the two guys are up here, it's clear that this is something I'm not to take part of; this is a greeting of friends, maybe even family. I back up a few steps but don't walk away, even though my brain is screaming at me to just go back to my cell and read something. But I stay.

"You're back," the farmer's son says, grinning from ear to ear; Michonne is just a yard or two away. Gracefully, she slides down from her horse's back, and two little plumes of dust rise up when her feet touch the dirt. Something pokes out from behind her shoulder - a sword of some kind?

"Just for a few days," Michonne explains. "Get some good rest, a shower or two, then I'm heading back out." There's a small drop in the boy's expression, but it's only noticeable if you're paying attention.

"Oh."

The farmer steps forward then, patting the horse on her back a few times. "Find anything good?" He asks, eyeing a couple of duffel bags tied to the horse's saddle. Michonne smiles.

"Just a few things. Food, tools." She looks over at the boy. "Maybe a couple of comics…" The fallen expression lights up again, and Michonne pulls a grocery bag from one of the duffels. "There should be three or four in there. Someone liked their Science Dog." The boy takes the bag from Michonne, grinning.

"Thanks," he says, and this is the point where I decide standing here is too awkward for my comfort. As I ravage my brain for places to scurry off to, Beth takes Michonne's horse by the reins.

"I'll take her to the stables," Beth murmurs, running a palm over the horse's neck; when she walks away, I take this as my chance and follow her. She only notices once I fall in line beside her; Beth glances over at me and smiles. "You okay?"

"Oh- yeah, just wanted to… meet the horse, you know?" I explain, looking up at the chestnut hair and chocolate eyes. I try not to be intimidated by the fact that she's at least a couple of inches taller than me. The horse barely acknowledges my presence - something I'm grateful for. My explanation wasn't the most truthful, I'll admit. But I think Beth already knows that.

"Okay. Well, since you wanna get friendly with Flame, you can help me get 'er settled."

So the horse has a name. _Flame._ Just as we reach the stables, she gives a soft neigh and grits her teeth before Beth leads her into one of the enclosures. "Help me with the saddle?"

I nod, suddenly aware that Beth was actually asking for help, then walk over and help lift the saddle from Flame's back. So far, I haven't been nipped at or kicked, so I think it'll be smooth sailing. Hopefully. The height thing still worries me though.

"Daryl found her out in a field gettin' chased around by walkers," Beth murmurs, dusting her hands off once the saddle is sat on part of the stable wall. She takes a brush from a bucket nailed to the same wall and steps over to Flame's side, removing a harness from her head. "Took him all day to finally get her calmed down, and that was _after_ he took care of the walkers. Took us even longer to actually get the girl to listen, but… we did it eventually."

I nod along as Beth talks, then watch her begin to brush Flame's hair. Flame herself seems to enjoy it, so I reach up and give her neck a gentle stroke. _Okay, so far so good…_

"How long have you all been here?" I ask, making eye contact with Beth. For a moment, she seems to think, then shrugs.

"Since last summer. Five, six months? Time's all… wonky here. Spend too much time inside and it can get a little stir crazy."

"Same with the outside," I reply, gazing over Flame's back. "Everything out there looks the same. Trees, grass, dirt. A change of scenery is always good."

Beth smiles at me as she reaches up to run the brush over Flame's back. I can tell she loves this, taking care of the horse - even some of the lesser parts she seems to enjoy, like taking off the harness and feeding her a sugar cube. It's nice to see someone take joy in something so… normal.

"I'm gonna miss her when Michonne's takes her out again," Beth murmurs, giving Flame a scratch behind the ear.

"Does Michonne not come back very often?" It's a small question, but it has the potential to become a loaded one - something I suddenly realize. "Sorry," I add quickly, "I don't mean to pry-"

"No, it's fine," she says, waving her hand and snickering. The grin falls just a bit. "It's complicated. She _does_ come back, but… Michonne always finds a way to get back out there." Beth looks up to meet my eyes, and for a moment all we do is stare at each other from either side of a perfectly oblivious Flame.

"Don't we all find a way?"

Beth cocks her head to the side. "Have you?"

"Maybe. I don't think I've been here long enough. Yet. Have you?"

A couple seconds of quiet. "Sometimes. When I'm in my cell, writing in my journal or reading a book or just lyin' there thinkin' about nothing in particular… a part of me goes back to what it was like outside the fences." Beth breaks eye contact and leaves Flame's side, making her way to the lopsided fence and climbing over it. She sits down on the top board, planting her boots on the bottom one and looking over the Yard. After a moment, I join her.

"I had a dream about it last night. The Outside."

Beth looks over at me. "What was out there?"

I'm silent for a moment. I try to think, because sometimes dreams aren't easy to remember. "My mistakes."

I glance back at Beth, and she's looking at my wrist.

"You gonna ask about it?"

Her eyes trail my arm up, up up up until she's made eye contact with me - briefly, before turning to face the yard. Beth sighs - not the tired kind, or the heavy, or the kind loaded with questions that'll never get answers. Just a regular old sigh. "Nope." Without hesitating, she holds up her left arm, sliding her jacket sleeve back and turning her wrist just enough for me to see a jagged scar running across her skin. I stare at it for a moment. "You gonna ask about it?" Beth repeats, though there isn't a hint of anything negative in her tone.

I turn and look out at the yard. "Nope."

"Cool. Wanna help me with the pigs?"

* * *

" _Get through the days,_

 _do you thing, do it well,_

 _so take it down."_

* * *

 _ **a/n: throwback to when i didn't take forever to update… sorry bunches that it's been so long. got caught up in some stuff irl, plus writer's block is a bitch. i hope this chapter isn't too confusing, working on it over the course of two months isn't really the best method. thanks to everyone reading and favoriting and reviewing and anything else you might be doing. it means the world.**_

 _ **on a side note, i would also like to make sure i'm portraying michael in the correct way - i've never attempted suicide myself, and i never want to come off as insensitive or as if i'm trying to romanticize it - those aren't my intentions at all. thanks again!**_


	4. Four: Skinny Love

_**Chapter Four: Skinny Love**_

 _"Come on, skinny love, just last the year,_

 _pour a little salt, we were never here,_

 _my my my, my my my, my, my,_

 _staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer."_

* * *

There is a compound bow in the armory.

I only know this because of my chore shift working with Maggie, something I've taken up in the past week - ever since the day with Flame and Beth in the stables. None of them asked it of me, of course, but I insisted; it helps get my mind off of things. Plus my antisocial ass needs to make friends here, even if I'm terrified of everyone. Damn anxiety or the worries about embarrassing myself.

Oh, right, the bow. I saw it on my first shift of armory inventory check with Maggie - something I'm doing right now, actually. The gist is that I make checks on the clipboard while Maggie lists off ammo, guns, anything of the sort. It's easy, probably the easiest chore I've signed up for, but… that damn bow keeps distracting me.

Leaning up against one of the rifle bins, it has a black finish and white bowstrings, with blue tape wrapped around the handle. There are a few scuff marks on it, and the bow itself has clearly been used; but overall, it looks to be in near perfect condition. If I could just get my hands on-

"Michael? You get that?"

I look away from the bow. Maggie, standing just a couple of feet away, looks at me expectantly; it takes me a short second to realize that I hadn't even been paying attention. "Huh?"

I expect Maggie to continue working, but instead looks from me, to the bow, then back to me. A smirk spreads over her lips. "You've been eyein' that bow over there for the past week."

Ignoring the warmth on my cheeks, I try smiling in attempts to play it off normally - I doubt it works. "Oh- sorry."

Maggie shakes her head. "Don't be. You know how to shoot?"

"Um. Yeah. I was on my high school's archery team," I answer, leaving out the part about being top three in the state. I don't brag because, in truth, I like to think I'm not a total asshat. Maggie's eyebrows raise and she lets out an impressed "hmm" sound. Whatever that means…

"Well… if you want it, it's yours."

What.

"What."

"I mean, nobody really knows how to use it but Daryl, but he hasn't claimed it for 'imself and I doubt he'd give up his crossbow for it. I'll talk to Glenn about it, make sure everything's there with it, but yeah. I don't see why not."

I sneak a glance at the bow and try not to smile. "Okay. Cool."

"Mind if we finish this first though?" At least Maggie isn't hiding any smiles. I nod, then check off one of the shotguns and continue down the line.

* * *

I'm using an old recliner for target practice.

The only reason it hasn't been taken by someone to use as furniture already is because A, it's too big for a cell ( it would just take up too much space ), and B, it reeks of cat piss, mildew, and rotting fabric. And… maybe blood? Yeah. Even _I_ wouldn't risk getting in all of that, much less let it sit and stink up my cell. So, now it's sitting in one of the back courtyards, away from everybody, with three red circles, a big white dot in the middle, and another red dot in the middle of that - the bullseye. It stands out bright against the ugly orange fabric, and for that I'm thankful.

My first shot lands in the white.

Not a bullseye, of course. But I'm just getting started. Looking for my aim point, making sure my legs are spaced out right, posture like a statue…

"Hey!"

I let the arrow loose and it burrows into the corner of the recliner, just a few inches away from the outermost circle. "Shit," I say to myself, only loud enough for me to hear, then turn to face the direction from which the voice came. To my surprise, Beth is standing a few yards away, clearly trying to hide a laugh.

"Sorry," she says, grinning from ear to ear. While I'd usually get pissed off if someone interrupts me during a practice - times have changed. Plus… her grin sorta stops me from thinking clearly. "Didn't mean to throw you off balance there."

"It's fine," I reply, smiling a bit - it's a shy one, I can tell, but before I can mentally tell myself to get a grip, Beth speaks up again.

"So you're an archer, huh?"

"You could say that. Well- I was, up until I lost my bow a few months ago."

"Did you ever do it in school?"

"Ah, yeah, actually. Started in middle school, stopped when the world ended. Quite the career stopper, but I think the skill comes in handy sometimes."

Beth walks forward to stand by me, looking over at the spray painted recliner before nodding at it with her head. "Mind if I watch?"

I shrug. _Play it cool, dumbass._ "Sure. I can teach you too, if you want, though I should probably warm up first."

"'Kay."

Beth doesn't move.

"You, uh, might wanna back up a bit."

"Oh. Yeah, probably."

Beth backs up. I turn, face the recliner, get back into my stance. This time I have an audience, even if it's just Beth, but I've done this before in front of hundreds. I'll be fine.

 _Yeah._

I take an arrow from the quiver strung over my back, knock it on the string - a motion I've probably went through more than a thousand times before. Get my aim point in sights, draw the string back, and fire.

This arrow hits the white again, but this time it's closer to the bullseye; maybe an inch or two away. Beth is still silent, which sends a little shock of anxiety through my chest, but I ignore it and continue. My fourth shot is even closer, my fifth right beside it, and - finally - the sixth shot hits the bullseye. A part of me - the _old_ me - is disappointed in myself. Before the outbreak I'd get a bullseye within my first two or three warm up shots; now it seems like I've gotten a bit rusty.

Beth doesn't seem to care though.

"Holy shit," she breathes, raising her hands up to give me a few claps. "That was good!"

I shrug at her again. "It was okay."

Beth looks at me, incredulous. "' _Okay'_? That was awesome. I'd prob'ly have a bunch'a arrows all over the place before even hittin' that old thing."

I shrug. Again. Beth grins. "Don't just shrug!"

"Alright, alright. I was ' _awesome'._ "

"Damn right you were."

I can't stop myself from smiling this time, or shaking my head. "So, you wanna learn, or not?"

Beth eyes up the bow for a moment, stepping forward. "Maybe. Is it hard?"

"Not really. This bowstring doesn't have a lot of weight to it."

"In general."

"I mean, no? I guess it just depends on how patient you are. It's harder than using a gun. More steps to it."

Beth tilts her head a bit. A lock of her fringe hangs down, swaying back and forth - a part of me thinks about playing with it. I ignore that though - I've been doing a lot of ignoring myself lately.

"Well… yeah. Why not. Teach me how to shoot a bow and arrow, Mr…" Beth trails off.

"Waters."

A hint of a smile shows on her face.

"That your final answer?"

"Final answer."

"Okay, Mr. Waters. Show me how it's done."

* * *

If I'm being honest? I think it'd be easier to teach one of the little kids.

"Beth- keep your legs at shoulder width, like this, yeah- now, one foot that way and the other that way… no, don't aim yet- Beth."

"What?" She asks, her right eye squinted as she aims down the bow. "I'm doin' it right, ain't I?"

"Well if we were taking an actual class, you'd have been kicked out by now-"

"Yeah, yeah, tell me somethin' I don't know. It really ain't that hard, Michael."

"Uh huh? Wait until you let go of the string the wrong way and it scrapes off your skin like a skinning knife."

" _It can do that?!_ "

Resisting the urge to laugh I shake my head. "Calm down, not this one. There isn't enough weight on it. At most you'll get a welp and a bruise."

"Well thanks for scarin' the Jesus outta me…"

"Don't think that's possible."

"Har har. So can I shoot now'r what?"

"..."

" _Miiiiccchhhhaaaaeeeeelllllll…_ I ain't gonna poke anyone's eye out!"

"Alright, alright… but _pay attention_ and _don't_ shoot unless I say you can, okay?"

Ecstatic like a child on Christmas, Beth nods vigorously as I pull an arrow from the quiver, easing the bowstring back into its place. "Okay, now put the string in that part right there, put it right above where the red dot is on the string. Yeah, there- now, put your first three fingers on the part below it, you're gonna pull back with those- okay. Aim. Fire when ready."

A short moment passes before Beth lets go of the string. Contrary to my belief that it would fly off and hit one of the walls, her arrow actually lands on the recliner, right on the outermost circle.

"Heck yeah," Beth says under her breath, grinning from ear to ear as she lowers the bow. Gently, I scoop it out of her hands, not even realizing that I'm smiling as well. "Told'ya I wouldn't poke anyone's eye out."

Before going to retrieve the arrows, I let myself smile at Beth and give her a curt nod. "Give it time."

* * *

 _I go places. See places. Find places. Go to sleep. Eat. Take a piss. Live there for a while. Keep moving. It's a cycle, one that I can't break._

 _ **We**_ _went places._

 _Places that were nice for a while. Big green trees. A bunch of cars. Windows. Staircases. Bleachers. A glass house with gardens and flowers and vines crawling up the walls, all the way to the roof. Places where nature has began taking back ownership of her land. Making it peaceful again, somehow. Peace doesn't last long._

 _Gunshots show up after._

 _Crying. Screaming. Someone yelling for me. Multiple voices, everywhere, echoing out through the darkness lit only by flickers of firelight._

 _Blood on my hands. Blood on my hands._ _ **Blood on my hands.**_ _A knife in my leg and a bullet in his chest._

Waking up fucking sucks. There's an ache in my neck from sleeping in the wrong position, and the telltale beginnings of a charlie horse muscle spasm in my left calf. I sit up in bed, in the dark - careful not to hit my head on the bunk above me - and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The concrete floor is icy cold under my feet, seeping into my toes, but I do my best not to focus on it in favor of standing up to relieve the muscle cramp.

It takes a moment, but after pacing around my cell and leaning down to rub my calf, the spasm is quelled and I can rest easy again.

But I'm awake now. And that sucks.

There's no way to tell what time it is exactly - sometime in the early hours of the morning, maybe. all I know is that I'm not going to bed any time soon, so I might as well go for a night walk. D Blok is quiet, the occasional snore or cough breaking the silence; since I arrived, more survivors have shown up with scavenging parties. Since C Block was already full by the time I got here, D Blok was the next best thing. It may be selfish, but a part of me misses how quiet it used to be when just me and a couple of other solitary wanderers made it our home.

After slipping on my shoes and pulling thick wool sweater over my shoulders, I leave my cell and descend the stairwell into D Blok's main hall. Here, pale morning light illuminates enough of the area for me to see where I'm going; the Yard. Outside it's chilly, with a fog shrouding the Prison in a blanket of crisp, cool air. I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel good against my skin.

Down by the fences, three or four clumps of Husks dot the main sides of the field. I can barely see them, thanks to the fog, and I'm sure it's the same on their end. That may be why there aren't any Cleaners down there this morning. I try not to envision myself down there, hacking away at them through the fence in the stifling heat; one of the chores I've taken up since getting the bow. Maggie and Glenn advised against it, of course, but I didn't pay much mind to their warnings. Like the other chores, it helps me focus on something throughout the day.

Not really knowing where to go, I decide to make my way through the first fence encasing the Yard and into the field where the stables are. To my surprise, Flame is wide awake, chewing on grass and apparently having the time of her life.

"Hey, Flame," I say softly, reaching forward to run a gentle hand over her neck. She stays silent of course, because she's a horse and horses can't talk. "Can't sleep? Yeah… me neither."

A moment of silence passes.

"Y'know, I used to like dreaming. Do you? Can horses even dream? I dunno. Well, I used to like them. Now, they just… keep reminding me of things that happened. Like my mind doesn't wanna let me forget all the bad shit that I _do_ wanna to forget. You know?"

Flame chews on her grass.

"Dreams are just… unnecessary. I hope we can agree on that." Again, I rub over Flame's snout and give her a nice little scritch over the nose. She seems to enjoy this. "Mind if I stay here and wait for the sunrise with you?" I ask. As if on queue, Flame nudges her head forward and butts it into my palm. I grin and give her another pat.

"Alright then. Looks like I'm staying."

* * *

 _"I tell my love to wreck it all,_

 _cut out all the ropes and let me fall,_

 _my my my, my my my, my, my_

 _right in the moment this order's tall…"_

* * *

 _ **oop hi its been a hot minute but i'm back :)))) expect another upload soon, probably, unless i suddenly loose all will to write again. anyways, enjoy the chapter the few of you who actually read this mess.**_


	5. Five: Deadcrush

_**Chapter Five: Deadcrush**_

 _"Swim low_

 _In the back dry in the night,_

 _sample_

 _put it there, get the money (watch me now)_

 _in the back of a Volvo car,_

 _sample_

 _hold over,_

 _pay up, sign up, LA..."_

* * *

Two weeks pass and today is one of the hottest days of the year. In fact, it might be the hottest day _so far;_ and, for some odd reason, today was the day I decided to help work on construction of a new semi-shelter.

Yep.

While the main pavilion works just fine, it's getting cramped up with how many people began showing up to meals; yesterday, Beth and I had to eat lunch in the D Blok courtyard after showing up late. Archery practice ( a regular occurence now, thanks to Beth ) is actually working well, even if it makes us late to meals; Beth's gotten a lot better since we began. But now, I'm with a few of the others, hammering away at one of the roof boards and trying not to fall on the hard, blistering-hot concrete.

I'm up here because - well, I was the lightest. Other than Carl, who got put on supports duty by his father - Rick is _also_ on supports duty. There isn't much talking, other than simple instructions and Rick teaching Carl anything there is to know about this. In truth? Carl looks bored out of his mind. I can't blame him though. It's sweltering out here today and based on how much I see him reading comic books, I'm sure he'd rather be doing that in the shade of his own cell.

"Doing alright up there, Michael?" asks Carol, sitting on a picnic table just a few feet away from the construction. Earlier, she brought us lunch and I could have hugged her right then and there. I didn't, though, because that would've been weird, but I _did_ thank her bunches.

"Yes ma'am," I answer, hammering down another nail before reaching down to retrieve another plank from Maggie. "Just ready to get this finished."

"You and me both," Glenn says from below. From what I can tell, he's reinforcing a tree trunk as one of the shelter legs. "Damn heat's gonna melt the nails before we can even use them."

"Is that even possible?" Carl asks.

"Probably not, but I think I've made my point."

"Well," Rick starts, passing a nail over to Carl, "jus' keep in mind that this'll free up extra room in the pavilion. Keep everyone from feelin' so cramped up."

Time passes. Eventually, most work on the shelter is finished, with at least half of the roof boarded down and the supports completed. I'm thanked for my work as everyone leaves, and as I make my way down to start my shift on the fence, someone runs up and taps me on the shoulder.

"Hey, Michael- you got a sec?"

Recognizing the voice as Glenn's, I slow down my pace before coming to a complete stop. "Yeah, what's up?"

Glenn changes his stance as he comes to stand beside me, reaching up and running a hand over his damp hair. "I, ah, took a look at the chore roster earlier. You're name's on there a few times."

I nod. "Yeah, I wanted to go ahead and sign up before the spots got filled."

There's a weird expression on Glenn's face. "Well, it's good that you're getting involved, but... I'm just a little worried that you're overworking yourself."

Oh.

Well.

Hm.

"I mean, I'm fine. I just wanna make sure I'm pulling my weight."

"I know that, and so does everyone else - but it's okay to let yourself relax for a bit. You haven't even been here for a month."

I shift my weight from foot to foot. Awkwardly. Glenn continues.

"Ever since you got here you've been working. Take a day off, read a book, or… whatever you like to do. It won't hurt, and if anyone says anything else about it - just come to me, alright?"

Silence for a moment.

"Uh, sure. Yeah. I'll figure something out. I gotta go do my cleaner shift though - is there anything else?"

Glenn looks over at the Husk clusters, then back to me, and I can see something in his gaze change. "Hershel wants to have a checkup when you're finished," is all he says. I nod, then the two of us part ways.

* * *

The dead are like a wave.

Dozens of them line the fence, clumping together like metal beads drawn to a magnet. Men, women, children, all of them have dull and lifeless hunger in their eyes. It's all they focus on. _Us._ The living. They see us as a meal, we see them as a threat. One in particular eyes me up like a Christmas ham. Like I'm the best thing in the world, right here, right now.

The sharpened end of my cane pierces the cranium of its skull, and it falls to the ground in a heap along with the rest of the dispatched Husks. I would be lying if I said a part of me wasn't afraid of them - the way I felt back in the early days of the turn. When people still thought this was just a temporary event, something we would look back on in a few years and think, "Wow, I can't believe _that_ happened."

I kill another Husk.

I can remember being absolutely _terrified_ of them. Wishing that there could be anyone else to put them down like rabid dogs - wishing for my mother, my grandparents - and at one point, even my father. But none of my wishes came true because I had to grow up. I started killing the dead and I lived with it because I had to, because it was the only way I could survive.

Kill another. Another. One more. Two more.

Maybe I can start doing more than surviving. But if I let myself believe that, what happens next? What if it all comes crumbling down as soon as I let myself get comfortable? Why can't I just… live with the constant fear that everything I hold dear to me will one day disappear?

 _Because that already happened._

But… maybe that just gives me more room. More places to store the things I care about.

One more Husk goes down. The other cleaners all make conversation, an idle distraction from the goriness of this all, but I don't. I soak it in, let the realness of it become a part of me. Recharge my battery, so to speak, because I can never forget this. What it's like. What it will always be like.

A few dozen kills later, my shift is over.

* * *

C Block is fairly empty at this time of day. Most, if not everybody is out in the Yard, or spending their time with others doing… whatever they do. Whatever the hell we're supposed to do while living in a prison. For the most part I just busy myself with chores, but there have been instances where I do more than just that. Like Glenn said, but less. Playing kickball with Patrick, Carl and the others, putting more arrows into that sad excuse of a recliner - sneaking glances at Beth when she isn't looking. It's all relative; keeping myself occupied.

Hershel's cell is lit by a lantern sitting on a desk. I've grown familiar with it, thanks to regular checkups and Hershel cleaning and dressing the healing mistake on my wrist. It's one of the few places here that I don't feel out of place, as odd as that sounds; I knock on the concrete threshold and wait.

"Come in."

I enter. Hershel is sitting at the desk, reading through a book; once I'm closer I realize it's a bible. I say nothing for a moment, until Hershel looks up and smiles at me warmly. "Michael. How are you today?"

"Alright," I say, taking a seat at the desk across from Hershel. I'm reminded of my first day here, meeting him, but push the thought out of my mind and instead lay my arm across the table for Hershel to inspect.

"Just alright?" Hershel begins to unwrap the gauze. I look away, instead look at a pretty moth in the corner of the ceiling.

"A bit tired, I guess. Worked a lot today."

"Well that's good. I'll have to get you in the garden someday - make a real farmer outta ya."

I smirk, about to say something, but Hershel beats me to it.

"Okay, Michael? Looks like we'll be taking your stitches out today."

Oh. Cool. Not like I totally hate stitches or wounds in general. I mean, I knew this was coming. Stitches always have to come out, even if you don't want them to. Fucking things.

"It won't take but a couple'a minutes," he continues, twisting around to pull a kit and from under his bed. "I like to think I'm a professional at this."

"Professional at what?" Beth asks as she enters the cell. In her hand is a book - a journal, actually. She comes to lean against the wall just a couple of feet behind me, her hand gripping the back of a third and final chair.

"Removin' stitches. Michael's are comin' out today."

"Oh, cool. Can I watch?"

Hershel, having pulled on two surgical gloves, looks up at Beth, then me, before going back to preparing his tools.

"Long as Michael's okay with it, I don't see why not."

Fuck.

It isn't that I don't _want_ Beth here - I'd just rather her not watch me bitch and moan like a little baby while her dad takes stitches out of my suicide attempt. But… I feel like she wouldn't make fun of me for it. Or, whatever the hell I'm afraid will happen. So I turn my head and shrug.

"Sure. Don't see why not."

"Cool."

Beth pulls the third chair up beside me, then sits down and leans forward. I try not to think about how close we are as Hershel lightly grips my forearm.

"Alright, Michael, are you ready?"

"Yep. Go for it."

When Hershel starts, it isn't some unbearable horrible pain, but it definitely doesn't feel good. It's like a tight, quick pinch against my skin each time he cuts the stitch and pulls it out, and it only feels worse as he continues - maybe it's just me being dramatic, or the emotional weight this carries is making me _think_ it hurts worse than it actually does. I don't really care, because before he can even get to the middle, I wince before I can stop myself.

"Sorry," Hershel and I say at the same time. I laugh. Nervously, and I can tell because I know what my nervous laughs sound like. They aren't very convincing. I know because I've been told that before.

Suddenly, I feel a hand interlock with mine; Beth's palm is cool and soft, opposed to my clammy calloused fingers, but at this point I don't care because it's a welcome distraction. I don't even think Hershel notices, but if he does, he isn't making it obvious.

"Tell me somethin'," Beth says, looking over at me with her big blue eyes. "Where are you from?"

"Ah- Hawaii, originally. But I moved to Savannah when I was thirteen with my mom and my brother."

"That's cool! I bet it's really pretty there, especially in the summer."

"It was. It rained a lot but it was always really sunny. There was this place behind my grandparents' house, just a five minute walk into the jungle - a small waterfall that went into a pond. I played there all the time as a kid."

"We had a pond back at our farm. I can remember my older brother throwing me an' Maggie in there when we were little, like we didn't weigh nothin' but a sack of bread."

"I threw my brother in once. He cried. I got grounded."

Beth laughs, and I laugh too because, even though I'm getting stitches cut out of me and Beth and I are talking about ghosts, it isn't the worst thing in the world to be holding the hand of a pretty girl.

"Why did you move here?" Beth asks, "I mean, I'd live in Hawaii for as long as I could."

I clear my throat. "My parents got divorced, and my mom thought, 'hey, let's move across the world to start fresh.'"

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Nah. It… it was good. It was a good change. She was originally from here, so we stayed with her parents for a while. It was nice."

"And… we're done," Hershel announces, wiping down my wrist with an alcohol-soaked cloth. This is when Beth pulls her hand away, gently, and even though I already miss the feeling of her hand in mine I don't let it show. "Just make sure to keep it clean for the next couple of days, and _don't_ work at the fences unless you have it covered up. I mean it, Michael - it's healed, but the stitch-holes could still get infected. They should close up soon, but you shouldn't risk it."

"I won't, you have my word. I don't plan on letting MRSA take me out."

"Good, it'd be a real bitch to treat. You're good to go."

Beth and I both stand up, filing out of the cell. A quick look through one of the high windows shows that the sun is an hour or two away from setting - meaning that all of my work shifts for the day are officially over. So, after going to D Blok, gathering a fresh change of clothes, shampoo and a bar of soap, I make my way to the bathrooms... only to be stopped on the way there.

"Hey, Michael!" Someone calls out, "you got a sec, man?"

Jesus. It's like my encounter with Glenn all over again, and for a moment I expect him to pop into view - only to see Zach. He's another survivor here at the Prison, who arrived maybe a month or two before me - tall, well build, shaggy brown hair. A talker. The friendly type. Maybe two or three years older than me, in college when the world ended. We haven't spoken a lot, only enough for him to call me "man" and "dude."

"Uh, yeah. What's up, Zach?"

"Just wanted to talk for a bit. Where you goin'?"

I hold up the change of clothes. "Just taking a shower..."

"Cool, cool. Hey, ah- I was wondering. You and Beth are friends, right?"

I blink.

"Um. Yeah? Why?"

"She talking to anyone? Y'know, like... romantically?"

 _Oh._

"... Not that I know of, no..."

Zach looks pleased, the expression in his eyes soft. He smiles, big and bright and charmingly, then claps me on the back. I pretend it didn't almost knock me over. "Alright. Sweet. I'll talk to you later, dude."

"Yeah..."

He leaves. I blink a few times, try not to let it show that I'm just a little bit jealous, then finally descend into the bathrooms.

My shower is short, and cold, but it feels amazing thanks to today's heat. While I'm under the water near the end of my shower, just letting the cold stream cool me off, I look down at my wrist; the dots from the stitches have clotted up already, and the scar is an angry shade of pink. It's a reminder, I think. For what? I'm not sure. All I know is that it won't be ignored, and I'll hate having to see it every day. But I guess I deserve it.

My thoughts trail to Beth. I think about how, as time has progressed, I've let myself get closer and closer to her - despite the warnings in my head that tell me not to. I tell her stories, debate with her about anything and everything I can, and even if it scares me I do it anyways. Maybe it's my impulsiveness, maybe it's just me wanting to have someone to call a friend for the end of the world. All I know is that I feel good around her. Happy. She helps me forget about all the yuck in the world and I think I need that.

I turn the water off, dry myself, then pull on my clean clothes; socks, sweatpants, and a white tank top. Briefly, I stand in front of the mirror and toy with a locket around my neck, running my finger over the initials inscribed on the back; _AJD_ _._

"I talked about you today," I say out loud. "Told Beth - and Hershel, kinda, about you. About Isaac, and dad. A little bit. I guess… I guess it's getting a little easier. Maybe I'm scared of that, maybe I'm just overthinking it." I pause for a minute, letting out a soft sigh. "These are good people. Maybe _that's_ what I'm afraid of."

I leave the bathroom, walking down the main hall to return to my cell. When I turn to walk through the doorway, I catch sight of Beth leaning up against my bunk.

"Uh, hey?"

Beth looks up, her face brightening. "Hey."

I blink.

"Did you, uh, need something?"

For a moment Beth watches me, silent. There's a mischievous glint in her eyes as she smiles big and bright. She holds out her hand.

"Wanna go on an adventure?"

* * *

 _"Anna Bolina,_

 _maid of honor,_

 _not your sister, fearful temper._

 _You're my DC, oh Anna oh,_

 _unknown artist, took your likeness,_

 _Henry Tudor took you lifeless, yeah,_

 _You're my DC, oh Anna oh..."_


	6. Six: Be Good

_**Chapter Six: Be Good**_

 _"It's unclear now what we intend,_

 _we're alone in our own world,_

 _and you don't wanna be my boyfriend,_

 _and I don't wanna be your girl…"_

* * *

Somehow, I don't think I imagine my 'adventure' with Beth will go the way it's going.

After taking her hand, Beth leads me away from C Block, down a bunch of separate corridors and through doorways I didn't even know existed. The farther we go into the Prison the darker it gets, with less windows and sunlight to illuminate our way, and it seems like Beth's planned for this; she retrieves a flashlight from a pocket in her thin cardigan and clicks it on. The hallway is lit up in white light, shadows bouncing off of each other as we continue.

"You seem to be awfully prepared," I say. Beth shrugs and makes a "meh" sound.

"It's the end of the world. A girl's _gotta_ be prepared."

This part of the Prison is a lot dirtier, less lived in than the rest - while it's been cleared of all the trash, bodies or anything of the sort, there's a thick coat of dust on everything and old bloodstains pepper the walls and floor. Eventually, though, we make our way into a section of the Prison that I've never seen before.

"Welcome to the admin buildin'," Beth says, like she's introducing me to the grand hall of a cruise ship. We go through two sets of doors just to actually get _inside_ the admin building, which looks a lot more professional and roomy. The floors are carpet, the doors wooden and lacking of any locks, and the windows aren't barred. As we continue, I can see that some of the rooms used to have furnishings - most likely taken by occupants of the cell blocks for their own rooms. There are still desks with papers strung about, and - going into a room - we pass over a big brown stain that I'm pretty sure is blood.

"What's in here?" I ask after Beth points to a room. Again, she motions to the doorway.

"You better not be locking me in here with a rabid animal."

"Oh just go on!"

I go on.

Inside, there is no rabid animal. Dimly illuminated by sunlight coming in through a window, I can see a small couch pushed up against one of the walls, covered by a sheet. Under the window is a table with candles that have yet to be lit, as well as two chairs on either side. But that's not the best part.

In the center of the room sits a piano; it's black and medium sized, accompanied by its own bench with leather cushioning.

"Holy shit," I breathe, walking in all the way. "How did you get a piano all the way back here?"

"Was already in the Admin buildin'," Beth explains. "All I had to do was push it in here and clean it up."

The only thing I can really do is marvel at it speechlessly. I'll admit, pianos aren't the coolest thing in the world, but when you live in a prison - you take what you can get. "This is awesome."

A moment passes and I turn to Beth. "Why bring me here though?"

She seems to contemplate her answer. "Dunno. Guess I wanted to show someone my 'home away from home.' Oh, and I wanted to repay you for those archery lessons." Walking across the room, Beth sits down on the bench in front of the piano. She looks back over at me expectantly before patting the space beside her.

"You're gonna… teach me piano?"

"Duh. Now c'mon, I ain't got all night!"

I c'mon. The bench is big enough for the both of us, but small enough to where we have to squeeze together so that neither of us have thighs falling off the edge. I ignore the physical closeness in favor of looking at the piano. It's old, probably older than me and Beth combined, and a key on the very end is missing - but besides that it looks to be in tip top shape. Probably.

"Technically I ain't gonna teach you piano, just a song on it."

"What song?"

"You'll see. I'mma do it first, though, just to show you how the _professionals_ do it."

"Oh, okay. Gotcha. But like, what song?"

"Hush."

I hush.

Beth starts to play. It's pretty, and simple, and it looks like it'll be easy - and then Beth sings.

 _"Now I'm laughing at my boredom,_

 _and my string of failed attempts,_

 _'cause you think that its important,_

 _and I welcome the sentiment._

 _and we talk on the phone at night,_

 _until it's daylight and i feel clever,_

 _and I hear the slow in your speech,_

 _yeah you're half asleep._

 _Say goodnight…"_

I think I'm captivated.

Beth plays a few more notes, slowing down ever so slightly, before coming to a complete stop.

"Wow," is all I can say. Beth smiles.

"So I'm gonna teach you how to do that."

She does. Sort of.

I get the first few notes right, and from there it's essentially just repetition with a few outliers - Beth says my singing voice could 'use a little work' but that I sound just fine for a beginner.

"Should I take that as a compliment?"

"You can take it however you want- okay, now put your index finger here…"

We continue. Time goes by, Beth's instructions meld together in one giant lesson, and by the time it's over the sun has fallen completely and the room is lit only by candles from the table - now on the piano.

"So, what do you think? Am I gonna be the next Beethoven?"

Beth rolls her eyes but I can tell she wants to laugh. Subconsciously, I feel myself inching closer to her.

"Not a _chance,_ buster. But you're a fast learner, I'll give you that."

"I'll take it."

There's a pause.

"Oh!" Beth suddenly exclaims. "I almost forgot." Reaching around, she digs into her cardigan pocket, groping about for a short moment until she retrieves the object she's been searching for; a blue and white striped bandanna. I tilt my head to the side as she holds it out for me to see.

"What's that for?"

"Well," she drawls, "When my cut healed and turned into the scar it is today, I didn't like seein' it every single day. Sleeves helped to hide it - well, that's a bad word. I wasn't really hidin' it, just… keepin' it from constantly remindin' me about a mistake I made. So, I figured… maybe you could use somethin' to keep goin' without that same reminder." Beth nods to herself, satisfied with her words. "If- y'know, you want. You don't gotta, we're all different and all, so-"

"I'll take it," I interrupt, a soft smile on my face. Even though the subject is a grim one, the fact that Beth thought to even do this means the world. I hold out my arm. "Mind putting it on for me?"

Beth smiles, then folds the bandanna and ties it around my wrist, double knotting it and making sure to cover up the scar with the biggest end.

"There. It suits you, actually. You should try out bandannas as a part of your daily wardrobe."

"Oh yeah?"

"Uh-huh. It can be your own little fashion statement."

I grin. The air dissolves into silence, one that's comfortable and welcoming and bathed in amber light.

"Beth?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Treating me like a normal person, instead of something that's on the verge of breaking."

"Well, are you?"

I pause. Look at her as if to ask _am I what?_

"On the verge of breakin'?"

I take a moment to answer.

"I'm… healing. Nothing is set in stone. Nothing is complete. But… I'm healing."

Beth seems to be satisfied with this answer. "Good."

We fall into silence again, but this time, there's something different about it. Our knees graze against each other, shoulders press together, eyes looking anywhere other than each other.

I look at her. Beth. She looks back at me and smiles.

"Beth?"

"Yeah?"

I lean forward and kiss her.

It's sudden, and impulsive, and not very thought out, but _God_ am I glad I do it. When it happens it isn't like how they describe it in the books or movies - it never has been for me. There aren't any sparks flying, no electricity crackling, no fireworks booming in the distance. Just me, Beth, a piano and candle light; and even with how anticlimactic it is, I wouldn't have it any other way.

It ends just as quickly as it begins.

I pull away, ever so slightly, hoping that I didn't just make things weird. Beth's expression is one of surprise - she clearly didn't see it coming. To be fair, neither did I.

"Oh," she says.

"Oh?" I ask.

Beth looks up at me from the space behind me. She's quiet again, the cogs and gears in her mind moving at top speed. She grins.

Beth leans forward and kisses me back.

It's brief but just as lovely as the first. When she pulls away, her palm is flat against my chest and my hand is cupped around the base of her neck, and she presses her forehead against mine with her eyes closed.

"So what should we do now?" I ask. Beth shrugs.

"Stay here for just a little longer?"

We stay here for just a little longer.

More time goes by. We move from the piano to the couch, Beth's back pressed into my chest and my chin on the top of her head. My fingers run through her hair as we talk about anything and everything we want to - movies, songs, quotes, moments from our pasts and moments we want to see in our future. What we wanted to do as successful adults, what we'll probably end up doing. Beth thinks I'll become a beet farmer. It's hard to disagree with her when I said she'd trade piano lessons for vegetables and broth. I tell her about my brother and his endless love for trains, and how he was absolutely obsessed with _Thomas the Engine_ \- she tells me about her celebrity crush (Justin Timberlake _is_ quite the heartthrob and that she once cried for hours when she figured out he was dating Cameron Diaz.

We laugh, joke, poke fun at each other - it's something I didn't know I needed so badly until now.

Like all good things, it eventually comes to an end.

Neither of us know how long we've been gone - an hour and a half, maybe two. What we can agree on, however, is that we should both go back to our respective cell blocks so that there isn't a manhunt for us. We get up, blow out the candles, and leave the room before shutting the door behind us.

Once we get out into the main hall, Beth clicks on her flashlight. Like before when she first led me back here, the light flickers on and we start walking down the hallway. As the two of us bicker over what's a better chip dip (Beth says salsa, I say melted cheese) her flashlight begins acting up. First, it flickers in a short and brief burst, before fizzling out into darkness.

"Shit," Beth curses. I can't see her, but I can sense her presence right beside me and can hear as she slaps the flashlight against her palm repeatedly in attempts to turn it back on. A couple of moments pass by, filled with hushed giggles from me and muffled curses from Beth; eventually though, the light flashes back on and illuminates the entire hallway.

As well as a Husk, undead and in the flesh, less than a foot away from me.

 _"Fuck!"_ Is the only thing I can say before it lunges at me. Thanks to my reflexes, I manage to raise my arms up and keep the Husk from tearing into my throat - however, completely blindsided by the fact that _there's a_ _fucking Husk in the Prison and it's trying to eat my face off,_ I'm unable to keep my balance and the two of us tumble backwards.

Somehow, we end up sprawled out on one of the office floors, having fallen through a doorway and onto the carpet in the middle of the room. The Husk, however, isn't giving up that easily; it gropes and claws at me, wheezing with putrid rotting breath, and it's getting closer and closer until…

Something hits it over the head - that something is Beth, and in her hands she's gripping some kind of glass paper weight while the flashlight illuminates her from behind. The Husk snarls, tripping over itself and collapsing to the ground beside me, but it doesn't fail to bring Beth with it; the paper weight slips from her grip and bounces over to me, and I can hear a yelp escape from Beth's lips. Using this to my advantage, while the Husk is still stunned by Beth's attack, I take the paper weight and slam it across the Husk's face with as much force as I can muster. I repeat this again and again, raising the paper weight up like it's a championship basketball before bringing it down to finally cave in the monster's decaying face.

As the adrenaline subsides and I start to catch my breath, I barely have time to sit up before Beth is throwing herself into me, her arms reaching up to wrap around my neck.

"Are you okay?" She asks, her voice muffled and shaky - I nod into her hair.

"Yeah, yeah - I'm okay. I'm alright." My arms snake around her midsection and squeeze because holy shit that was close. Once the immediate worry over each other fades away, Beth and I look over at the now dead Husk.

"How the hell did it get in?" I ask aloud, even though I know neither Beth nor I can answer that question.

"What if there's more?" Beth replies. We look at each other for a moment, then quickly leave the Admin building and head straight for C Block.

* * *

"You're sure it was jus' one?"

Half an hour later, Beth and I are sitting on one of the tables in the C Block common room, joined by Hershel who gives us a quick look over to make sure we haven't been hurt. Daryl, Rick, Glenn and Sasha have just returned from scouring out the Admin buildings for any breaches and other Husks that might have gotten in; to the surprise of Beth and I, they find nothing. Not even a breach.

"Yes," I answer, looking up at Daryl. "Just one. Are you _positive_ there wasn't a broken window or… something?"

"We looked everywhere," Sasha replies. "No broken windows, all the doors are locked up."

"Wait," Glenn interjects, "were they all actually _locked_ or just shut?"

"Most of them are locked, but… I don't know if I would say all. Why?"

"Do you think… maybe someone let it in?"

"On purpose?" Beth asks, her eyes wide. "Without tellin' anybody?"

"Look," Rick says, "The Admin building is clear now. We should just close it off for a few days, do some more sweeps just in case." He pauses, then seems to catch himself. "If the Council can agree on that."

"We'll hold a meeting tomorrow," Glenn responds. He turns to Beth and I. "What were you guys doing back there anyways?"

I exchange a glance with Beth.

"Just exploring," I answer, "I wanted Beth to show me around. Sorry."

Glenn looks between us, then shrugs.

"It's just a miracle that the two of you made it back safely," Hershel interjects. "That's all that matters."

After a few more minutes of idle discussion about the breach, the adults tell us that we should head back to our cells and get some sleep. Beth offers to walk me back to D Blok, and I accept.

"Sorry about that," she says as we walk down one of the pitch black hallways.

"About what?"

"Kinda sorta almost gettin' you killed. I promise I didn't have that kinda endin' in mind when I went to your room earlier."

We pass through one of the main doorways into D Blok and I shake my head. "Don't be. You got that fucker off me like a badass. Besides, I've heard of worst first dates."

Even though I can't see it, I know Beth is grinning.

"So that was a first date, then?"

"Oh, totally. Unless, y'know, you wanna have a redo."

"Nah… I think I liked this one."

We're at the stairwell. I can hear soft snoring coming from a few cells down. Beth and I turn to face each other.

"Oh, shoot," Beth says suddenly, leaning towards me; she reaches up and wipes something from my brow. "You had walker blood on you."

"Wouldn't be the first time. Thank you, though. For tonight. I… really I needed that."

She smiles and I think a part of me is melting.

"I should probably head back before my daddy starts to think I've run off to join the circus or somethin'."

"Yeah. That would be a shame - all those people are loonies, y'know."

Beth giggles. I swear it's the best thing I've ever heard.

"Well, goodnight," Beth says, turning, but I stop her.

"Beth?"

She turns back around. "Yeah?"

After a second or two of staring into her eyes, I kiss her. It lasts longer than the last two this time, and when I pull away I can see that, even in the darkness, Beth's pupils are blown and dilated.

"Goodnight," I say. Beth backs away, smiling, before turning to leave the cell block. I wait for the bobbing white light from her torch to disappear before walking into my cell. As I lie down for the night and slowly fall into a peaceful, dreamless sleep, I think I can hear piano tunes. Or maybe it's just my mind playing tricks on me. I don't really care though.

* * *

 _"And that,_

 _that's a relief,_

 _and we'll drink up our grief,_

 _and pine for summer._

 _And we'll buy a beer to shotgun,_

 _and we'll lay in the lawn,_

 _and we'll be good…"_

* * *

 _ **so… here we are. Beth and Michael are a thing now. sorry if it feels rushed or random and out of the blue and didn't get much development, which I suppose helps because it's sort of supposed to be a spur of the moment thing, but… yeah. thanks to all for reading, and for the pleasant surprise of some new reviewers and followers. any and all support honestly means loads to me.**_

 _ **ALSO, disclaimer - i edited chapter 5 and added a little interaction near the end, in between Michael grabbing his shower shit and actually taking the shower - it's a bit necessary to understand a few upcoming scenes ( specifically in chapters 7 and 8 ) but if you've read it within the last 2-3 days you should be good. next chapter should be up in 5 or 6 days!**_

 _ **anyways. till next time, nerds.**_


	7. Seven: Noisy Sunday

_**Chapter Seven: Noisy Sunday**_

 _"It's late in the night,_

 _it's late in the night for a start,_

 _it's quiet again…"_

* * *

 **ONE MONTH LATER**

* * *

The morning is young but I'm wide awake. The air is surprisingly chilled, even for this early; I shouldn't be surprised though. Daryl and I left way before the sun began to rise.

Something moves up ahead of us; leaves crackle and a branch snaps. Out from behind a bush, a brown hare slowly creeps into our line of sight. I'm silent, quiet as can be, waiting for it to move forward _just a bit more…_

Knock an arrow.

Pull the bowstring back.

Fire.

The sheer force of the arrow is enough to yank the hare back by its neck, slinging it across the ground and coming to a stop just a few feet away from where it used to be. It's already dead before it hits the ground.

Behind me, Daryl hums. "Nice shot. Go get it."

From my place about thirty feet from the hare's corpse, I jog across the woodland and pick it up by the hind legs; blood splashes from the entry point when I yank the arrow from its neck. I take a spool of twine from a pocket in my hunting satchel, wrap it around the ankles, and tie it nice and tight before cutting the twine and looping it to my satchel sling.

"Think this is enough?" I ask, turning to Daryl and motioning to our respective catches - for me, just this hare and a squirrel, and for him, two opossums and a chipmunk. "Or should we stay out for a bit?"

Daryl swivels his head around, observing the area; over the course of the last two and a half weeks, ever since I started joining him on hunting trips, I've learned that this is typical of him to do while he thinks.

"Nah. Sun'll be all the way up by the time we get back, might as well go'on home."

"Okay."

It's quiet as we walk through the woods. According to Daryl, I sounded like a 'damn walker' before he began teaching me to maneuver through the forest unlike a 'damn walker.' Supposedly I've gotten better.

"You ever gonna let me shoot that crossbow of yours?" I break the silence. Daryl scoffs in return.

"Hell no."

"C'mon, it can't be _that_ hard."

"Yeah? The recoil'll knock you on your ass if y'ain't careful."

"Was that a short joke?"

"Ask me again when you hit a growth spurt."

"Ouch. Stab stab, my achy little heart. Y'know, just because I'm 5'6 doesn't mean I can't kick your ass."

"Sure. I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

Our trip back to the Prison is uneventful for the most part. The morning continues, the sun keeps rising, and it's almost peaceful until we face off against a small cluster of the dead. It's nothing serious, three walkers that file in from behind a tree, but it's enough to ruin the moment in all its undisturbed existence. But when we dispatch them, the forest is silent again, and we move on.

"Did you do this before?" I ask Daryl softly, making sure to not be too loud. "Hunt, I mean. Before the turn."

Daryl nods as he steps over a fallen log. "Mm. S'how I learned everythin'."

"Did you like it, though?"

"Guess. Didn't really have a choice."

"What do you mean?"

Daryl doesn't say anything for a few steps.

"Let's head on back."

I'm curious, but I don't press. Soon, we're back at Daryl's motorcycle, stashed and hidden under a large collection of tree branches and leaves. It takes us a minute to get it uncovered, then get on and drive out of the treeline. The roads are covered in summer leaves, thrown and spun about by wind and tires and herds, but for now they sit idly and wait for the next time they're finally in the air again. Some spin up as Daryl drives past. I soak in the sun; the warmth of the morning. These are the moments I crave and cherish.

It ends, though. We pull off from the main road and into a long stretch of road that pulls into the clearing where our home sits; walkers cluster together in large clumps, the biggest I've seen in weeks, and they all turn at the hum of Daryl's motorcycle. But we're faster than them all, faster by a long shot - the copper doors at the front gate open, a walker is impaled on one of the spikes, and Daryl speeds through before any of them can even get close to us. Daryl drives up to the Yard, and once he stops I hop off before handing him our game.

"Thanks for the ride up," I say, offering Daryl a half-assed salute, but before I leave he speaks up.

"The Council pulled the coal crew from the test run today," he explains. "Could use a few extra bodies if you're interested."

"Oh, shit- really?"

"Mm."

"Alright, cool, yeah. I'm in."

Daryl nods. "We're headin' off at noon. Make sure you're ready."

With that, Daryl drives off, leaving me to stand there with a shocked grin. I turn and return to my cell.

D Blok has gained at least a dozen more occupants in the past month. Some families, some loners - ones like myself who wandered aimlessly in the wasteland until just getting here by chance. Someone is playing an old folk song from a battery powered radio; three kids run past me and I can hear one yell about story time. It's homey here now, despite the most colorful thing being chalk drawings on the walls.

In my cell, I lay my bow down on the bed, lifting the hunting satchel over my head and dropping it on a chair in the corner. Someone knocks on the entrance to my cell.

"So, how was hunting with the coolest guy in the whole prison?" Patrick asks, a goofy grin on his face. I shake my head with a smirk.

"Y'know he's just a regular guy, right?"

"Okay, and? He's a _badass._ I shook his hand, Michael!"

"That's _so_ awesome."

"I know! I was working breakfast with Carol and he's just so cool and- you were being sarcastic, weren't you?"

I laugh. "Yes, I was being sarcastic. Your hero-boner for Daryl is getting weird, man."

"My hero-boner is perfectly acceptable. And it isn't a hero-boner. I'm sure you could appreciate how cool Daryl is since you went freaking hunting with him."

"And guess what? I'm going on a supply run with him later, too."

Patrick looks like I just told him I got invited to Kings Island by Jesus Christ himself and I can't help but mimic his goofy grin from earlier.

"You lucky fucker."

"Why's he so lucky?" Someone asks. Turning, I watch - my gaze softening - as Beth walks past Patrick into my cell, pushing away the sheet that hangs from tape above the threshold. She's got her hair up, with a blue tank top and her cardigan tied around her waist; she looks amazing in the sunlight shining through the barred windows, even if she's carrying a bucket full of dirt-covered vegetables in with her. Said bucket is dropped down to the floor once she enters.

"Because you're here," I say, wrapping my arms around her back and drawing her close. We press our lips together in a kiss, once, twice, three times and my heart almost skips a beat. Patrick groans.

"You two are gross."

"Says the one with a hero-boner for Daryl Dixon," I mutter slyly in between kisses.

"A- a hero-what?" Beth asks, her expression confused and oddly intrigued. Patrick groans again and I laugh into Beth's neck.

"I'm gonna go die now," Patrick says, then he's leaving the cell and I can finally trail kisses from Beth's lips, to her cheek, jaw, then all the way down her neck until she's giggling madly and play-slapping me on the shoulder.

"You're an idiot," she says.

"But I'm _you're_ idiot," I say back. Beth is grinning, her eyes are sparkling and my face is warm but I wouldn't have it any other way right now.

"How did the hunt go?" Beth finally asks once we're sitting on my bottom bunk, her back pressed into my chest and my fingers running idly through her hair.

"Good. Kinda boring." I pause. "Daryl said I could go on the Big Spot dry-run today."

Beth's breathing pauses for a short, very brief moment - so brief I wouldn't have noticed it if I wasn't paying attention. But then I feel her shrug, and she turns her head to look at me. "'Kay. Just be safe."

I would be surprised at her nonchalant response if I wasn't already used to it. Though it's never been addressed, I've noticed that she reacts to things in a rather deadpan manor; accepting it for what it is. At first it reminded me of my brother, and how sudden he'd changed along with the rest of the world, but I put those thoughts away and did just what Beth is doing now - accepting it for what it is. I've been trying not to let that scare me.

"Want me to look out for anything while I'm there?"

Beth hums, her fingers fumbling with the bandanna still tied around my wrist from all those days ago. "Candy."

"Okay."

"Lots of candy."

"Alright, what else?"

"Popcorn. Scrunchies. Maybe a Syd Matters album."

"Who's Syd Matters?"

Beth looks at me like I've just insulted her.

"What?" I ask.

"You don't know who- okay, Michael, this is dissappointin'."

"I've never even heard of him before-"

"This is really tragic, honestly."

" _Who is Syd Matters_."

"I ain't tellin' you now."

"Beth."

"Can't hear you."

" _Bethyyyyy..."_

" _Mikeyyyyyy..."_

That's it. I wrap my arms around her and start tickling. Beth bursts into giggles and I'm relentless, going everywhere from her neck to her armpits to her sides.

"Mike- Mikey, Michael _please- blawha-_!"

"Nope, you're trapped."

"Okay, okay, you- _yoAh- Michaelyouwin!"_

I relent. She's still trapped though, pinned under my arm and gasping for breath, laughing like I'm the funniest thing on Earth. For a moment we just lay there, grinning madly like two dumb teenagers at the end of the world, until Beth reaches up to cup my cheek in her hand. "You be safe out there, okay?" Her hand moves and brushes my bangs away from my face. "I mean it."

"You have my word."

I lean down, pressing my lips against hers, and before I know it we're suddenly kissing hard, arms tangling with Beth palming at my back and her fingers in my hair. My pulse rises, her heartbeat runs fast like a wolf, and the closeness is intoxicating until we finally pull away and catch our breath. Beth's cheeks are rosy, her chest lifting and falling and lifting and falling - the vein on her neck pulses with life.

I know this moment has to end. All good things do, right? Doesn't mean I have to like it. Because I don't. I really, really don't like it. But when has that ever stopped anything?

"I should, ah… should get ready for the dry run," is what I say, though I really mean, "We should stop and calm down before we go too far." Because there is a 'too far' - an unspoken thing between the two of us that we have yet to mention. Which is okay, of course, there's nothing wrong with that. I don't think. Beth knows this, because she nods and brushes a lock of her bangs out from her face.

"Yeah. Daddy's probably wonderin' why I ain't back from the gardens yet, anyways."

I lean back, sitting on my leg as Beth crawls out from under me and drops her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Michael?" She says.

"Yeah?"

Beth leans forward and kisses me.

"Be good. Don't do anythin' stupid."

"Yes ma'am," I grin, putting on a fake southern accent, and Beth leaves my cell with a smile on her face and a bucket hanging from her hand.

* * *

It's not long before noon arrives and I'm leaving D Blok for the armory, dressed in boots, black jeans, a simple white tee and a denim jacket. I've decided to leave my bow here; it won't do much in a fight, as I don't have much practice against walkers with it, and I'd much rather have a rifle in my hand when facing off against the undead. So that's what I take from one of the rifle bins, a Colt M4 and my freshly loaded revolver - a Smith & Wesson 15. I've had it ever since finding it in the glovebox of an old jeep, and I don't plan on giving it up anytime soon. And just as a precaution, I slip my switchblade into my back pocket.

"You ever use one of those?" A man asks, doing the exact thing I am. He has dark skin and a military jacket is draped over his shoulders. I remember briefly seeing him this morning in D Blok - one of the new arrivals. When I realize he's talking about the M4, I nod. A bit awkwardly, probably, as I readjust my grip on the rifle. Like I have something to prove. Which I do, sort of, even if I've already done that enough. That's what Beth says at least, and Glenn, and Carol, and Hershel, and-

"A friend taught me," I explain. Eager to get the questions off of me, I ask, "Are you going on the dry-run, too?"

He nods, stepping forward a bit. "Figured I should try and at least show everyone I'm not completely useless." The statement almost makes me grin - it's weird that I'm reminded of myself, back when I didn't know anybody and the closest friend I had was a bow and arrow. The man steps closer again, holds out his hand. "I don't believe we've met, though I think we live in the same cell block. Bob Stookey."

I grip his hand and shake. "Michael."

Introductions aside, Bob gathers his things - a rifle and an extra magazine - and we make our way out into a section of the Yard where Sasha and the others are loading up a green Hyundai and a gray truck. Just as we walk up, Bob calls out, "Hey!" and raises a hand. "I'd like to start pulling my weight around here." He falls out of my sight when I walk back to the gray truck, unloading my backpack into the bed.

"Bob," I hear Sasha say, "it's only been a week."

"That's a week worth of meals, a roof over my head. Let me earn my keep."

Sasha is silent for a moment. "You were out on your own when Daryl found you."

"That's right."

"I just wanna make sure you know how to play on a team … you, too, Michael."

I look up, startled at the mention of my name, to see Sasha glancing back at me. Before I can say anything, Daryl speaks up as he walks past Sasha. "We ain't gonna do it unless it's easy. Michael's good."

"You know he was a medic in the army," Glenn speaks up. "And Michael can find stuff where we won't even think to look."

Sasha gives me one last glance, then turns to Bob. She's quiet.

"You're a hell of a tough sell, you know that?"

Sasha stays quiet. Then, "Okay."

We load into the vehicles and I pretend not to be shaken up by Sasha's hesitancy to let me come. I get into the truck without a word, sitting in the passenger seat beside - oh.

Beside Zach.

He looks over at me, a tight lipped smile on his face.

 _This is awkward…_

Awkward because, well. I basically told him Beth was single, which probably meant he was gonna try and swoop in for the kill ( or whatever the hell my dad used to say ) and then I _literally_ kissed her a couple of hours later. Which he figured out about, by the way, when Patrick couldn't shut up at lunch one day. Ever since then, it's been… weird. And it shouldn't be, because there are worse things to deal with ( like the undead hordes and murderous bandits ) but. It is. Despite telling myself it's stupid and that I should be mature about this, just talk it over with Zach to make sure everything is cool - I don't. I _haven't._ Not yet. But I'm going to. Yeah.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"So you're going on the dry run?"

"Uh, yep. Daryl said I could earlier, told me that the-"

"Coal crew was pulled out?"

"Yep."

"Mm."

"Huh?"

"Oh- nothin'."

"... M'kay."

Finally, the fucking engine starts and we're going down the main driveway - then coming to a stop when Daryl pulls up to a newly returned Michonne, with Rick and Carl already there to greet her. For a moment, the four of them talk, until Michonne gets into the Hyundai.

"Guess Michonne's coming, too," Zach says. I nod.

"Guess so."

I already want this to be over with. We eventually arrive at the Big Spot superstore - maybe an half-hour long drive filled with uncomfortable silence and awkward smalltalk. But we make it there, finally, and I have to check to make sure I haven't melted into a puddle from wanting to leak out of the truck so bad.

Zach parks the truck just a few feet away from the Hyundai - I'm out as quick as possible, drawing in the fresh air that doesn't smell of stale awkwardness. We follow Daryl to face the fences, looking over the property.

"Army set these fences up, made it a place for people to go."

The parking lot, fenced off around the entire perimeter, is littered with military tents, equipment, empty and overturned crates - it looks like just another fallen refugee camp. One of many I've seen, especially in my time on the road - before and after nearly every camp in the state was overrun by the dead and the living alike.

"Last week when we spotted this place," Daryl continues, "there was a bunch'a walkers behind this chain link. Keepin' people out like a bunch of guard dogs."

"So they all just left?" Bob asks.

Sasha steps forward. "Give a listen."

We do. After a few moments of quiet, we hear an orchestra of classical music in the distance - along with the growls and groans of walkers.

"You drew 'em out," Michonne deduces.

"Put a boombox out there three days ago."

"Hooked it up to two car batteries," Glenn joins in.

Stepping through a hole cut into the chain link, Daryl says, "Alright, let's make a sweep. We'll make sure it's safe, take what you can - come back with more people tomorrow."

We make quick work of sifting through the wreckage - discarded clothes here, overturned crates there, a splash of playing cards across the blacktop. It's mostly empty, save for the occasional skeleton or two, and within minutes we've finished the sweep and are gathered at the front sliding doors. Leaning against the windows, Daryl bangs on the glass with his elbow once, twice, three times before lowering his arm.

"Just give it a second."

We wait. I stand a few feet away from Michonne, facing the parking lot with my M4 hanging loosely in my hands. A moment passes of mostly silent air, other than a few birds chirping on the roof, until Zach speaks up.

"Okay, I think I got it."

"Got what?" Michonne asks. I continue looking over the lot, pretend the corpse of a woman is intriguing.

"I've been try'na guess what Daryl did before the turn."

 _Good luck with that._

"He's been trying to guess for like, six weeks."

"Yeah, I'm _pacing_ myself."

The corner of my mouth rises ever so slightly.

"One shot a day."

"Alright, shoot."

"Well… the way you are at the Prison, you bein' on the council, you're able to track - you're helpin' people. But you're still being kind of, ah… _surly._ "

What the fuck does surly even mean?

"Big swing here."

Pause.

" _Homicide cop._ "

Michonne bursts into laughter as soon as the words come out of his mouth. I almost do it, too, but stop myself by biting my tongue.

"What's so funny?" Daryl asks, as if he's even offended by her laughter.

" _Nothin'._ It makes perfect sense."

"Actually, the man's right. Undercover."

I perk up at this, because _no fucking way_ Zach got it right. There just can't be any way. Zach seems to think so, too, because it takes him a minute to even respond.

"C'mon, really?"

"Yep. I mean, I don't like to talk about it, 'cause it was a lotta heavy shit, y'know?"

A pause.

"Dude, c'mon- _really?_ "

Daryl says nothing.

"I guess I'll just keep guessin', I guess," Zach finally says."

"Yeah, you keep doin' that."

A walker slams against the window. I turn just in time to see Daryl stand up from against the window.

"We gonna do this, Detective?" Michonne asks, sarcasm obviously in her voice.

"Let's do it."

We stand in front of the automatic doors - Tyreese breaks the chain locking them together with a crowbar, pries them open, and Daryl takes out the walker with his crossbow. Bob pulls it out from the doorway.

"Alright," Sasha begins, "we go inside, stay in formation for the sweep. After that, you all know what you're supposed to look for. Any questions?"

"Was there any time you weren't the boss of me?" Tyreese asks. Sasha grins.

"You had a few years before I was born."

We file in. Everyone is inside - at least _almost_ everyone is inside - when I realize Bob hasn't entered yet. I poke my head out the door to see him peering down at a pair of dismembered legs, bisected from the rest of the body at the waist.

"Bob?" I call. He turns. "You good?"

"Uh, yeah. Let's go."

* * *

The Big Spot is a motherfucking _gold mine._

It's virtually untouched by the apocalypse - shelves stocked full of goods, things we need and things we don't need - everyone takes a shopping cart and begins to search through the isles, swiping up whatever is deemed necessary. Zach and I are charged with sanitary products - toiletries, tampons, pads, soaps and anything of the sort. I'm scooping an entire section of deodorant into my cart when a golden box drops to the floor; I lean down, grab the box and examine it with the beam of my flashlight.

 _Oh. Ohhhhhh._

Condoms. A twelve pack to be precise. I'm about to put them back on the shelf when I hear Zach scoff from a couple of feet away.

"Getting lucky tonight?" He asks. I look up at him, so mortified that I'm sure I look like a deer in headlights.

" _What?_ No- oh, God no, um- shit. No. No, they just- they fell, and I picked them up and I didn't even know what they were and-"

"Alright, alright, relax, man…" Zach says, grinning from ear to ear, and I shut right the fuck up becausr _wow_ that was a word vomit. "I'm just yanking your dick."

 _"What."_

"I'm _messing_ with you, Michael."

"Oh. Hah."

Zach shakes his head, still grinning, then turns away to look over the tampons.

I blink a few times. Figure this is as good a chance as any, because why the fuck not.

"Hey, uh, Zach?"

He turns.

"Yeah?"

I hesitate.

I hesitate and the whole world comes crashing down, because glass explodes - someone yells out, " _No!_ " and it sounds as if a cacophony of shotgun blasts have gone off in the center of the Big Spot. Zach and I give each other a very brief, wide eyed look, before rushing off towards whatever the hell made that noise.

When we finally get to the source of the crash, all the way into the Wine and Beer section, we see that two shelves have fallen over a portion of the isle - the smell of liquor invades my nostrils and I can see it spilled all over the floor, along with shards of glass and torn wine labels. Tyreese and Daryl have already arrived, and Daryl's shining the light under the shelf. Someone's _down_ there.

"It's alright, he's just pinned," Daryl explains - I don't know if it's Glenn or Bob but I don't have time to ask. "Come on, help me get it up."

"What happened?!" Glenn yells from across the store, answering my question that I never asked.

"Everyone's alright, we're over in wine and beer!" Zach yells back. The four of us lift up one of the shelves, pushing it back against another row, revealing the top half of Bob's body poking out from under the second shelf.

"I was movin' fast, man, dove right into the drinks," Bob explains - his voice is shaky and I honestly can't blame him.

"Man, you lucked out," Tyreese says, crouched down in front of Bob. "If these things had come down on you the wrong way…"

Tyreese can't finish his sentence, because suddenly a portion of the roof is caving in and a fucking _walker_ is falling from a hole - its midsection is caught on a metal bar and its intestines are ripped from the rotting skin, showering blood down on the floor below. Illuminated by bright, blinding sunlight, the walker swings back and forth like some demented chandelier; its snarls and bites at us and hands grope in our direction like we're the next best thing since canned pineapples. Zach pushes me back, hand pressed into my chest, and Glenn says, "Yeah, uh, we should probably go now."

"Bob's still stuck, get him outta there!" Daryl orders.

"We'll get the others," Michonne says, but before anyone can even _begin_ to do anything…

All hell breaks loose, and walkers rain down on us from the heavens.

* * *

 _"Too much for noise to go on,_

 _to fill up the space,_

 _to fill up the rooms on Sunday afternoon,_

 _for your lovely ears,_

 _waiting for something to break this calm…"_


	8. Eight: BAPTISM

_**Chapter Eight: BAPTISM**_

 _"Hold my head,_

 _under water,_

 _take a breath,_

 _for the Father,_

 _learn to love, lessons repeating,_

 _the Chronicles are so misleading…"_

* * *

Despite everything I've seen in the past two years, I never thought I'd see walkers falling like flies from the sky.

Well.

They aren't falling from the _sky,_ exactly.

But they're sure as hell falling right on top of us.

The roof, most likely rotted away by rain and hail and wind and so much time without being taken care of, rips away like cardboard each time a walker steps on a weak spot. Some violently splatter over the ground, a few snap in half over the tops of shelves, others drop harmlessly to the floor and slowly pull themselves back up like it was nothing. I almost forget that they're walkers and that I'm supposed to start gunning them down; a blast from Zach's shotgun reminds me of that.

I raise my rifle, pop off two rounds into the nearest walker; my aim is off for the first shot and I hit it in the collar bone, but the second shoots right through its nose and the walker crumples to the floor. Each time the rifle bucks in my grip I try not to cringe; there'll be a bruise there later but I don't think about it now. I can't. I'm too busy fending off the dead.

Someone yells to get Bob, but I'm too busy blasting away more and more of the undead that just keep falling through the roof. Somehow, I end up away from everyone else, retreating down a toy aisle; there's three walkers left when my magazine runs dry.

"Fuck," I mutter, reaching down to pull my revolver out of its holster, but before I can even do that someone rushes by and dispatches them for me. Michonne, her katana bloodied and shimmering in the sunlight, turns to me.

"You good?"

I nod.

"C'mon."

I follow her around the corner. As we go, more than just walkers start to rain down; insolation, roof tiles, dust - it all drops from above as a downed helicopter begins slowly sliding towards an ever growing hole in the roof. Metal groans, shrieking against the supports; I'm across the room now, helping Zach lift up the shelf so Daryl can yank Bob out from under it. It works, Bob is out, and I'm about to turn when something grabs my ankle and I'm falling backwards to the floor. Someone yells my name; I see Zach jam his knife into the eye of a walker, the one that grabbed me, and he's dragging it from off my legs. Tyreese lifts me onto my feet like I weigh nothing. I hear Glenn scream at us to go, and I do, but not before another walker sinks its teeth into Zach's neck from behind.

The walkers swarm him and there's nothing I can do. _Nothing._ I watch his eyes grow wide, hear the scream that erupts from his mouth - it gargles through a fountain of blood. Before I can even think to move, Daryl is dragging me away as the helicopter falls right on top of Zach and the cluster of walkers that started tearing him apart.

The world turns into dust. The air is dust, my skin is dust, my clothes, everything. I can't see anything, led only by the rough grip of Daryl's hand, until we're rushing out the doors and back into the refugee camp; everyone is coughing. There are tears in my eyes but I blame it on the dust. I don't care if the others believe me.

The walkers that had been drawn away by the music are coming. I watch them stumble forward in droves, until Daryl yells at me to get on his bike, so I follow him through the fence and do as I'm told. We leave the Big Spot behind, and with it, Zach. Because even if he survived the helicopter, he'll be dead soon anyway. Or worse. I try not to think about that and focus on the hum of Daryl's motorcycle.

* * *

We don't stop until we get back to the Prison.

Our arrival is mostly silent; it's early evening by the time we pull into the gates. Nobody has spoken; no chatter over the radio. There's nothing to talk about, no loot to discuss, no future plans we can come up with. The Big Spot isn't something we can try to work towards anymore. The six of us are aware of that.

We come to a stop. Michonne, Bob, Glenn, Tyreese, and Sasha all climb out of the Hyundai. We had to leave the truck behind because Zach had the keys when…

"Y'okay?" Daryl asks. I look up at him. Rub the bandanna on my wrist. There's walker gunk and dust on it and it needs washing.

Daryl gets a nod because I don't feel like talking. He doesn't say anything else, instead shutting off the engine, and I'm grateful. Auto-pilot takes over; that distant, quiet feeling that kept me going in the dark and cold and damp place between Death and Restart. There's a churning, icky feeling in my belly, like I've had a big meal and a few turns in a bouncy castle, but the auto-pilot helps me ignore that.

Auto-pilot sends me to my cell. I drop off my bag, my coat, my machete - I don't even unhook the holster belt around my waist. Auto-pilot takes me to Beth's cell.

* * *

 _To All Of You - Syd Matters_

* * *

She's laying on her bed, writing in her journal. Music flows through the air softly from a battery powered CD player. I stand in the entrance until Beth looks up at me. She smiles.

"Hey. Get that candy I asked for?"

Auto-pilot makes me blurt out, "Zach died."

Beth's smile fades. Before she can respond I continue.

"We got in. Things were going okay. Walkers started falling through the ceiling and he saved me and he… got surrounded. A helicopter fell on top of him. From the roof. He. I. I, uh. Uhm-..."

Beth stands up from her bed, walks over and coils her arms around my neck. It takes me a moment because auto-pilot is suddenly shut off, but I manage to hold her back and we stand there for some time. I don't cry.

"I didn't get your candy. Sorry."

"We'll get some next time."

* * *

"I knew someone… before coming here. I knew a lot of people. But… this guy. He and Zach died the same way."

"You don't have to talk about it. Not if you don't want to."

"No, no… I do."

"You have to, or you want to?"

"Both."

* * *

 _The room was dim. The only light came from a candle on a dresser; it was quiet, unbearably so. Michael sat on the edge of his bed; the blanket covered a lump just behind him. Chloe sat at a table on the other side of the room and Dylan was leaned against a chair across from her. Chloe's hands were clasped together and her foot was tapping like she'd just gotten onto an adrenaline high. In truth, it was the lack of stimulation that had her anxious. It had them_ all _anxious. Waiting for nothing took its toll on you._

 _"We're running low on food," Chloe said, finally breaking the quiet. It had been like that for so long that it made Michael twitch._

 _"We're running low on_ _ **everything,**_ _Chloe we have been for the past two fucking weeks-" Dylan responded, raising his voice, but Michael interrupted him before he could say anything else._

 _"_ _ **Hey**_ _. Be quiet, I finally got Isaac to sleep and if_ either _of you wake him up…"_

 _The lump behind Michael stirred, but otherwise stayed the same._

 _"Sorry, Michael. I'm sorry. I just… we need to go out there and start searching. The cabin isn't always gonna have everything we need."_

 _"Yeah, well try convincing the others of that. Carter's got Harrison and Jeremy scared to even go outside, and you know Willa's up his ass 24/7." Michael shook his head. "We'd never convince them to let us go."_

 _Dylan stared blankly at the floor for a moment. It was quiet again, but not for long._

 _"... Who said they have to know?"_

* * *

"Carter was… sort of the unelected leader. After Camp Lima, he started making all of the decisions even though he wasn't even eighteen yet. None of us were yet, actually… but, ah, we were running out of food. Fast. Carter didn't want anyone going outside, had everyone convinced we'd always be safe there."

"That sounds like it was a mess waitin' to happen…"

"It was. We were all stir crazy, breathing in the same B.O. air and raging hormones and… Dylan said, 'hey, let's just go out without telling him.' It was a stupid plan, but. He had a way with words. Could tell you the sky was purple and you'd believe him."

* * *

 _Michael, Chloe and Dylan were walking down a road, the sun having fallen a few hours ago. Their paths were illuminated by flashlights and each of them carried some kind of weapon; Dylan carried a baseball bat, Michael a machete, and Chloe a pistol. She'd been designated as their backup since she was the best shot out of the three._

 _"You're both insane," she said. "If Carter figures out that we left…"_

 _"He'll know when we come back, anyways. It'll be better to have_ something _to keep him from ripping our heads off."_

 _"Yeah, maybe get some Lexapro to keep his crazy ass calm, too… Look, up here- this corner store might be worth a shot."_

* * *

"He, Chloe and I found this store. Like the Big Spot, just smaller, and no camp. It looked great."

* * *

 _"Was I right, or was I right?"_

 _The three of them stood at the edge of an aisle; the store had clearly been ransacked and picked through, however there was still plenty of food to gather. Dylan was grinning from ear to ear; Michael had a small smile on his face, and even Chloe looked like she was trying to hide one of her own._

 _"..."_

 _"I was right."_

 _"Yes, okay, fine, you were right," Michael relented. Without warning, a Husk turned the corner." But- oh,_ _ **fuck**_ _, Dylanwatchout!"_

 _The Husk sunk its teeth into Dylan's freckled throat._

 _"Dylan!"_

* * *

"It snuck up from behind him?"

"From around the aisle. We didn't do a sweep first. I figured it'd be fine if we just went through quietly and as quickly as we could. I was wrong."

"Oh…"

* * *

 _"Go, Michael, take Chloe and_ _ **GO!**_ _"_

 _Dylan's shirt was soaked with crimson by now. He trailed along behind Michael and Chloe, and further behind_ him _, a horde of almost two dozen Husks. Chloe turned to face him, eyes wide and fearful._

 _"What? No, Michael we can't leave him- we_ _ **aren't**_ _leaving you-"_

 _Dylan shook his head and blood pulsed out from under his fingers._

 _"Do it! I'll… I'll hold them off for as long as I can."_

 _Michael stared at him, as if he were studying him. He shook his head, breathing hard, but took Chloe's arm in an iron grip._

 _"... Thank you."_

 _"No!"_

 _"Chloe,_ _ **come on!**_ _"_

* * *

"I didn't even know what I was doing. It was like… like my body was moving but my mind was just _there._ Watching. I heard the screams, and… we knew he couldn't have made it out of there. _I_ knew."

"What happened after that?"

* * *

 _The sun had risen. It was early, only early enough to see the world in a blue tint. Michael and Chloe walked through the woods in silence until they came up to the cabin driveway. Carter, Willa, Harrison and Jeremy all waited on the porch. To say Carter was furious would be an understatement._

 _"What the hell happened?" He bellowed across the yard. He stalked down the steps, his tall form making Michael feel like he was a child again, in a new school with new people and eyes that avoided everyone._

 _"I… Dylan's gone."_

 _Carter blinked. Harrison, Jeremy and Willa all barraged them with questions._

 _"What do you mean?"_

 _"Why were you out there?"_

 _"Chloe? Michael?"_

 _Chloe stayed silent. She was too busy trying to stop herself from crying. Michael looked from person to person, trying to formulate his words._

 _"_ _ **Talk, Michael**_ _," Carter ordered in that deep voice that somehow made Michael's bones feel like jelly._

 _"We went out for supplies. Dylan thought it would help. He got bit and we ran into a parade and everything just… everything went bad really, really fast. I'm_ _ **sorry,**_ _Carter."_

 _Carter was silent for a moment. The Earth was silent; no birds, no wind, nothing. Just Carter's face slowly changing, the cogs and gears in his head going and going and going and-_

 _"... I_ _ **told**_ _you. I told_ _ **ALL**_ _of you that it wasn't safe out there."_

 _"I know, but-"_

 _Carter stopped Michael from finishing with a punch to the face._

 _"Carter!" Willa screamed._

 _"Carter, get off of him, man!" Jeremy yelled._

 _Michael fell to the ground, a dust plume of dirt rising and the air escaping his lungs. Carter got on top of him, his eyes wide and cold and filled with so much hatred Michael thought he saw the devil in them. Carter punched him, again and again._

 _"No, let them go at it. Kick his ass, Carter!" Harrison said; his face was red with anger. Chloe watched with tear rimmed eyes and an exhausted, almost faraway gaze. Then, after letting out a shaky breath, raised her pistol and pulled the trigger._

* * *

"We got back. Carter was pissed. He'd been slipping for a while, ever since losing his sister… I think I may have just been the final straw. Had a black eye for at least a week after that, but, ah… I probably would have died if it weren't for Chloe."

* * *

 _Carter's body went to the side, falling to the ground with a thud; a hole the size of a softball was in his face and chunks of it had sprayed Michael's mouth, cheeks and neck._

 _"Oh, shit!"_

 _"Carter!"_

 _Willa rushed down the steps, kneeling down beside Carter's already cooling body and cupping the preserved side of his face in her palm. She looked up at Chloe and it seemed that the devil had gone from Carter's eyes to hers._

 _"You… you shot him-..._ _ **YOU FUCKING SHOT CARTER**_ _-"_

 _"Chlo- Chloe… just put the gun down," Jeremy said. He and Harrison still stood on the porch._

 _"You_ _ **fucking BITCH,**_ _you killed him!" Willa screamed. Tears streamed down her face. "He's_ _ **DEAD!**_ _"_

 _"BACK THE FUCK OFF, WILLA. … G-... Go get our shit. Michael,_ _ **go get Isaac and our shit and lets get the hell out of here.**_ _"_

* * *

"So she just… shot him?"

"Yeah. She did what she had to do to save me. I wish it hadn't come to that. I think she did, too."

"I'm glad she did."

"Yeah…"

* * *

 _Michael, Chloe and Isaac all piled into the car; Michael kept his brother's eyes covered as they passed Carter's body. Nobody said anything, none of them tried stopping the others from leaving. Michael turned on the ignition and drove down the driveway, speeding out into the main road. Neither he nor Chloe spoke and it was quiet._

 _"..."_

 _"..."_

 _"Where are we goin'?" Isaac asked from the backseat, squished in between bags of whatever Michael managed to gather in his rush. Tuffs of brown hair stuck out in random places and it was clear he'd just been woken up by the commotion._

 _"..."_

 _"... Away. Put your seatbelt on, Isaac."_

* * *

 _"This is your baptism,_

 _and you can't forgive them,_

 _this is your baptism,_

 _and you can't forgive them…"_


	9. Nine: PLAGUE

_**Chapter Nine: PLAGUE**_

 _"I need you pure, I need you clean,_

 _don't try to enlighten me,_

 _power to misconstrue,_

 _what have they done to you…"_

* * *

Gunshots wake me up and I think I've been killed.

Spoiler alert; I haven't.

For a moment, as my brain clambered out of the deep sleep state it was so peacefully in, the first thought that came to mind was that Hershel had found me curled up beside Beth and blasted me away to hell; see, ever since he was made aware that Beth and I had become more than friends, these 'rules' were set in place. He'd taken me aside one day and explained that, while he trusted that I was a good person, as a father he was obliged to lay down ground rules for Beth and I. It was a bit of an awkward conversation, but I listened intently because I like to think I have redeemable qualities. One of these rules was that she and I slept apart, in our own cells.

There goes that.

I fell asleep last night after removing the '3' from the **30 Days Without an Accident** sign. It was unintentional and I totally meant to go to my cell once Beth was asleep, but… my plans fell through.

I blink my eyes open; wait a minute two minutes, three, and I realize that there really was no gunshot and that it was all in my mind. A dream. A nightmare, maybe - I can't remember it but I think I'll take that as a gift.

I'm uncoiling myself from around Beth, trying desperately to not wake her up as well, but I make one wrong move and she's jolting out of sleep. All sluggish and foggy eyed and adorable. For a moment I'm slightly glad that I did, but I'll never tell a soul.

"Sorry," I whisper, leaning back to sit on my knees against the bunk bar. I wince when I feel something dig into my back; the grip of my revolver, which I don't even remember sleeping with. Beth rubs her eyes, a yawn escaping her lips, and she waves me off with a tired hand.

"No… you're fine… oh _crap_ , what time is it?"

"I haven't known what time it was for two years, Beth."

She sits up, twisting around to look out her cell door - pale morning light shines in through the windows.

"But," I continue, "I'd guess it was maybe eight o'clock."

"Good," she says, turning back around and leaning into her pillows. "Daddy doesn't usually wake up before nine…"

Just then, an alarm clock goes off. Beth and I look at each other and grin.

"I should go get Judith," she says, sitting up and running a hand through her curls; it's one of the only times I've seen her with her hair down. "I'm watching her while Rick and Carl go gardenin'."

"Ah… Carl still hate it?"

"I wouldn't say he hates it," Beth replies, dropping her legs over the edge and leaning forward to take a brush from her desk. "Just… gets bored easily. You and I know what it's like."

"So, he still hates it?"

Beth bumps me with her shoulder and I snicker. For a couple of minutes we sit there in silence - Beth brushes her hair, I watch like she's doing some kind of captivating magic trick, and before I know it our few minutes of morning peace is over.

"You got any shifts this morning?" She asks. Her hair is up in its regular ponytail now and the cardigan is draped over her shoulders. I know that by the time noon comes around it'll be tied around her waist.

"Fence cleaning," I say. "Figure I'll just head straight there. I'm on until noon."

Beth nods. "M'kay. Meet me for lunch in the courtyard? Maybe we can try some practice."

"You know it."

Beth smiles, but before she leaves I say her name.

"Yeah?"

I reach forward, take her hand, and do something I've always wanted to do - I press my lips to her knuckles.

"Good morning."

Beth's cheeks blossom into a rosy red. "Good mornin'. Oh, and make sure to be gone before daddy wakes up. I don't want him thinkin' I'm turnin' into Maggie durin' her college days."

I'm confused but I don't ask because I'm honestly too tired. Instead, I give her a thumbs up and watch as she leaves the cell.

* * *

Fence cleaning isn't the easiest when you're doing it by yourself. Usually, with my morning shifts, there's at least three other people joining me - sometimes it's Yolanda, Derrick and Valerie, other times it's David, Karen and Ryan - all from D Blok. But being on my own gives me the chance to wave Michonne off as she leaves for yet another 'supply run'; Beth told me she was hunting down an old enemy each time she left. I can't blame her, based on the stories I've heard - a crazed man with an eyepatch who gunned down his own people after they refused to fight. So, I focused on fence cleaning instead of wishing I'd gotten to say goodbye to Flame.

I've been at it for about half an hour when, suddenly, a low boom sounds from the Prison; for a moment I stay still, because maybe this is just my mind playing tricks on my again. When another boom sounds, I realize that this is real and that someone is shooting off rounds inside the Prison.

Turning, I see Rick sprinting up the hill; Carl is locking up the pig pen and I'm about to run to him, ask what's going on, but a snarl from the fence draws my attention. Each time a gunshot erupts, the walkers get feistier; somehow I think they know someone is dying. I give the cluster one last look before rushing up to Carl.

"You have any idea what's happening?"

"Not a clue," he responds. "Dad just told me to get to Maggie in the tower, but…"

"Go," I say, nodding. "Go."

Just then, a whistle pierces the air - Carl and I whip our heads to see Michonne has turned back. She must have heard the gunshots. The two of us make quick eye contact before rushing towards the gates, using the makeshift pulley system to open them up. Just before we can close them, however, walkers drawn by the gunfire stalk in through the opening and make their way to Michonne and Flame.

I'm already going past the first chain-link gate, ignoring the protests of Carl, by the time Michonne can get off of Flame's back and shove away two walkers. Three others that managed to get inside are focused on me now, but before they can even get close I gun them down. I just barely catch sight of Michonne tumbling backwards, one of the walkers going with her, and I'm about to put a bullet through its skull when another rotting corpse is in my face.

"Shit!" I cry out; it grabs me by the shoulders, its bald head slick with blood and grime and god knows what else, and I can only manage to shove at it with the palms of my hands until a gunshot cracks. A chunk of its head explodes and Carl is standing there, wide eyed, with a smoking rifle propped against his shoulder. I blink a few times, making sure none of it got on my face, but then Michonne lets out a scream and a walker is flying through the air; it lands on a spike, upside down and snapping its jaws like that's the only thing it knows how to do. Maggie runs out from the gates and shoots it dead as I help Michonne onto her feet.

"You okay?" I ask - Michonne grits her teeth, then raises up a leg.

"Think I twisted my ankle."

"Here-" Maggie says. She take's Michonne's other arm and puts it over her shoulder. We turn and stop, just for a short moment, to watch as dozens and dozens of more walkers begin to swarm up against the fence from multiple sides.

"C'mon. Let's get back to the cell blocks. I think the gunfire stopped now."

* * *

We make it up to the crosswalk when Rick is walking out of a doorway - I recognize it as the D Blok entrance from the courtyard. Immediately, Carl rushes up to him despite a "Hey- you might wanna stay back-" from his father; Rick's right hand it stained with blood and sweat coats his forehead and arms. Briefly, they embrace, Carl muttering into Rick's chest until he's gently eased away.

"I had to use one of the guns by the gate, I swear I didn't want to," Carl says.

"I was coming back," Michonne explains from beside me, "I fell. They came out and helped me."

"Are you alright?"

Michonne nods.

"What the hell happened in there?" I ask. Rick blinks at me, fiddles with the watch on his hand- and then Yolanda is shuffling by, carrying a small body wrapped in a yellow blanket with her. My body goes rigid when I see a shoe poked out from under it; Haley's shoe. None of us speak until she turns the corner and her soft cries can't be heard anymore.

"Patrick got sick last night."

I look up at Rick.

"It's some kind of flu. It moves fast. We think he died and attacked the cell block last night." Rick looks at me, then Carl, and I don't even listen to what he says next because _Patrick is dead._ Patrick's dead and I suddenly feel that guilty little ball in my stomach because I wouldn't stop fucking teasing him about thinking Daryl was cool. Why did I do that?

"You should stay away from everyone who's been exposed, at least for a little while."

I blink the thoughts away and finally look back at Rick. Carl is moving back, getting closer to Maggie, Michonne and I.

"Did you see anything this morning?" Rick asks. I realize he's talking to me. "Have… any idea when it happened?"

I shake my head, readjust my grip on Michonne's arm. "I fell asleep in C. Went straight to the fences for my shift. Sorry." Rick nods.

"At least you haven't been exposed."

I nod back, not so sure that's really a good thing, and the four of us climb the steps into C Block.

* * *

"I'm glad you're okay."

My hand is gripped around a bunk support and I let that ground me to the Earth; keep myself from flying off into the stratosphere. Beth, with Judith in her arms, paces back and forth through the cell. Apparently the gunshots had gotten her into a fit and Beth was doing all she could to calm her down - it worked, because even though Beth is still pacing, Judith seems to be perfectly calm. I'd probably be up there with her, making googly eyes and stupid faces to entertain Judith because _sheesh_ babies are adorable, but… I'm not.

"Yeah…" I say. "Wish I could say the same for everyone in D."

"There was nothing you could've done," Beth responds. She pushes down a short tuff of Judith's hair with a soft stroke. "If you'd have gone there this mornin', you might've died along with them. Or maybe infected by whatever killed Patrick."

I probably don't look convinced because Beth stops and turns to face me. "It ain't your fault, Michael. You shouldn't feel guilty for bein' alive." I look up at her then, and I wanna say something but I don't know what; anything would suffice, really. But before I can Maggie walks into Beth's cell and clears her throat.

"Hey, Bethy- could you go wrap Michonne's ankle? It's just a small twist, shouldn't be too bad. And ah, Michael? I need your help out in the Yard."

Both of us nod. "You got it."

"'Kay."

Maggie exits the cell. I stand up, about to follow her, but Beth stops me by taking ahold of my wrist.

"Hey."

I turn.

"Yeah?"

"You're here for a reason, Michael. Everythin' happens because it's supposed to. Don't be upset because you were in the _right_ place at the _right_ time, okay?"

I stay quiet for a moment, letting her words sink in, but eventually nod and lean forward to kiss her on the cheek. Judith whines and I stick my tongue out at her before following Maggie into the Yard.

* * *

Maggie leads me into the courtyard, were she says we'll be cleaning off some of the Cleaner tools. I'm not sure why we're doing this, since I've never seen anyone do it before, until Maggie speaks up.

"So, I saw you in Beth's cell this mornin'..."

Oh.

 _Fuck._

"Oh…"

"Uh-huh…"

"We- ah. We didn't do anything. I was gonna go back to mine, I swear, I just… sorta fell asleep."

 _Wow, not even thirty seconds into this conversation and you heartbeat is_ already _that fast, huh?_

Maggie scrapes at brain gunk on an old, sharpened cane. Nods. I've never been afraid of her but the wrath of an older sister, especially one that I've watched decapitate two walkers with a single swing of her machete, is quite… terrifying. But Maggie doesn't seem like she wants to take my head off anytime soon.

"Just be glad I saw y'all instead of daddy. He doesn't hate you or anything, but I don't think you'd wanna hear the conversation I got."

I blink.

"Oh?"

Maggie smirks, as if remembering an old memory. "Yeah… came home from school one day and got blindsided with one'a those weird parent lectures about bein' a teenager and all that gross stuff parents don't know how to talk to us about."

This is when I realize Maggie isn't reprimanding me, more like giving out a free warning.

"Oh. Ew."

"Yeah, ew. But… I ain't gonna chew your head off or anythin', so you can stop lookin' like you're in trouble. Just make sure to wake up early next time."

I smile as best I can because I'm still falling down from that anxiety high, but then suddenly Maggie is looking behind me with wide eyes and standing up from the picnic table.

"The fence!" She says. I stand, too, turn around to see that a cluster of walkers has gathered up in one particular spot.

The fences is starting to cave in.

Maggie and I don't hesitate. She's running, yelling for Rick and Daryl who are digging graves in the field, and I'm already sprinting down to the walkway and taking some out. They're quick to join me, along with a few others - I see Glenn, Tyreese, and Sasha running with weapons of their own. We're at it for a minute or two, killing as much walkers as we can, but it feels as if each one we cut down is replaced by two more.

"Are you guys seeing this?!" Sasha yells over the roar of the cluster. We stop just for a minute, all gathering to look at something - multiple somethings, actually. Rats, some with missing heads and others spewed all over the gravel. "Someone feeding these things?!"

The minute we stop for is too long. The fence groans and creaks against the weight of the walkers, bending inward like mesh - someone screams to all gather at one part of the fence and we do, but we can't even take out a handful before we have to use our hands to try and push it back. I'm gritting my teeth, yelling out at the horde because _fuck this_ , and a walker's face is pushed through the fence like Playdough right in front of me. Somehow, we keep it from falling over completely, and we're ordered to back up. I take in a sharp breath and manage to keep myself from tripping over the gravel.

"Fence keeps bending like this, the walkers are gonna get over it," Sasha says aloud. We're all quiet for a moment, watching the wave snarl and bite and claw at the chain link, but then I look over at the field and nearly vomit at the thought that comes to mind. I hate myself for it, too, but I can't keep it to myself because it's too good of an idea to pass up.

"Use the pigs," I say. The words taste like ashes in my mouth but when everyone looks at me I have to continue. "Use them to draw the walkers away."

Daryl watches me for a short moment. His expression is unreadable and so is Rick's, but then the two of them go off to take care of the problem. Rick clapped my back as he went, and I hate that. The rest of us continue to take small chunks away from the cluster, handfuls at a time, until they're drawn away by squealing pigs. Glenn and Sasha start putting logs up against the fence but I can barely focus on that; the screaming is so loud I can hear it over the walkers even though it gets farther away each time another one is slaughtered. All I can do is watch and pretend I don't feel sick to my stomach when Rick slices one open and feeds it to the herd. Maggie squeezes my shoulder and tells me to go clean myself off, that I'm covered in walker blood, so I do. I take a very cold, very numbing shower, and it's a relief when the rushing water drowns out the squealing pigs that still run around in my head.

* * *

The next morning, I'm standing outside the library and listening in on the Council meeting.

Fourteen people are dead, fifteen if you count Zach. Twelve died in the walker outbreak yesterday morning, and two - Karen and David - were murdered that same evening. Nobody knows who did it. At least a dozen more are infected by the virus, including Sasha and Dr. S - the only person here besides Hershel who knows what the fuck to do in this situation. At this point, there's getting to be more infected than healthy.

"First thing's first - cell block A is isolation."

I don't know why I'm here in the first place. I'd been allowed to sleep in Beth's cell last night - albeit the top bunk and the top bunk _only_ \- because D Blok wasn't cleaned out yet. I woke up early because of a dream about pigs and faces getting shoved through chain link and hadn't been able to sleep after that, and when I heard Daryl and the others gathering for the meeting - I couldn't help myself. The door is cracked open and I have my back to the wall, listening.

"We keep the sick people there, like we tried with Karen and David."

"What the hell we gon' do about that?" I recognize Daryl's voice.

"Ask Rick to look into it," Carol says, "try to make a timeline, who's where when. But… what are we gonna do to stop this?"

"There is no stopping it."

Hershel's words make my mouth taste bad.

"You get it, you have to go through it."

"But it just kills you?" Michonne.

"The illness doesn't. The symptoms do; we need antibiotics."

Why the hell does this new virus just seem like a worse version of the walker flu? I can remember, back in the early days when I was cooped up in a refugee camp with other people; before anybody learned how to survive. I eavesdropped on a conversation just like this and hated every minute of it.

"We've been through every pharmacy nearby," Daryl responds, "and then some."

The room is silent for a moment until Hershel speaks up.

"That veterinary college at West Peachtree Tech. That's one place people may not have thought to raid for medication. The drugs for animals there are the same we need."

"That's fifty miles. Too big of a risk before… ain't now. I'mma take a group out. Best not waste anymore time."

Then, it sounds like the meeting is coming to a close, because I can hear chairs moving and creaking; I leave the hallway, quiet as a mouse, with a new purpose in my steps.

I'm going on that run.

* * *

 _"I am the plague,_

 _I am the plague…"_


	10. Ten: Drive, Part 1

_**Chapter Ten: Drive, Part 1**_

 _"I wanna steal a car,_

 _just for the thrill._

 _Driving around town,_

 _getting up to no good._

 _Do you wanna come with me…?"_

* * *

I'm walking Beth to the admin building when I tell her.

"There's a run to get medicine later," I say, "I'm gonna go with them."

Carrying her bag in one hand, with another over her shoulder, Beth keeps walking and I don't know what she's thinking. Of course I don't know. But after a couple of seconds she nods.

"Okay. Know who else is goin'?"

I clear my throat. "Well… I haven't really… asked yet? And I'm sort of supposed to not know."

Beth blinks. She stops in the hallway, turns her head. "Huh?"

"I… may or may not have eavesdropped on the Council meeting this morning."

Beth stays quiet, then shakes her head and continues on down the hallway. In front of us, a few of the healthy kids are following Carl into the Admin building. I see Molly, Luke, and the Samuels sisters - all orphans now.

"I just wanted to let you know before I left."

We get to one of the rooms - Our Room, the one with the piano and the couch and the candles. Since that first night in here I've learned more about playing the piano and I can play a few new songs, too, but mostly that first one Beth taught me.

"Okay," Beth says. She sets her things down on the couch and turns to me. "Do you think they'll actually let you go?"

I shrug. "I don't think they really have a choice. At this point there's more sick than healthy."

Beth nods. Then, she steps forward, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing me. My belly does flips inside of me and I think it's one of the best feelings in the world, because even with all of this shit happening around us, Beth can still manage to make it feel like paradise.

"I'll be back soon," I say into her neck after my hands have snaked around her midsection and pulled her into me. "Back before you know it." I wonder if this is how soldiers leaving for war felt - leaving behind their girlfriends, their secret boyfriends, mothers, fathers, friends. Leaving to fight something that could go up in flames at any time.

Beth kisses me goodbye, one last time, and then I'm leaving the Admin building and going straight for Daryl.

* * *

"You're going on a run, right? For medicine?"

"Mmm. Who'd you hear that from?"

"Little birdy. Doesn't matter. I wanna come."

"Why?"

"You need all the help you can get. I know the area, Daryl-I can fight. You know that."

"This ain't know dry run, y'know. And you can't freeze up, not like back at the Big Spot."

"I'm not going to."

"It's fifty miles of walkers. Sure you're up to it?"

"I do. Walked more than that before. Just… let me _help._ I couldn't yesterday so let me make up for that."

"..."

"..."

"Get your shit. We're leavin' in half an hour."

* * *

I finally go back to D Blok. It's been quarantined for now, with whatever healthy survivors that still remain having gone to the Admin building. All of the bodies have been removed, but there are still splashes and pools of blood coating the floors and the walls and the stairway railing, too; which is why I make sure to tie a red bandanna around my mouth and nose. Just in case.

My cell is exactly how I left it; machete in its sheath on my bed, hunting satchel still dangling from the top bunk, a few books splayed carelessly over the bottom bunk bed. I strap the machete to my back and take the satchel, then gather just a few things for the trip as I make my way through the Prison - two bottles of water, a protein bar, a half-empty box of bullets and a flashlight. Just in case. I leave the bandanna around my neck, reload my revolver, then leave to go meet Daryl and the others.

I find them just outside the Yard - Daryl, Michonne, Bob, and Tyreese. Tyreese's left eye is swollen up so bad he can't see, although I don't mention it. Rick's hand was bandaged earlier and scrapes littered his face. I can put two and two together.

Michonne notices me as I walk up. Her brow furrows and I can't tell if it's a look of confusion or distaste. "You're comin'?"

I nod. "Figured you could use the help. Got any room?"

Michonne looks at Daryl - Daryl shrugs. "Extra set'a legs won't hurt."

"Well…" Michonne trails off. "Okay. Yeah. Hop in."

I try to hide my grin - I'm not sure if it works but I really don't care. It falls fast though, because I realize who's car we're taking - Zach's. It's a black Dodge Charger, four door, and if it's as good as Zach said then it's the fastest car we have. Of course we'll be using it.

We get in. I'm squished in between Bob and Tyreese, but it makes me realize that being short and skinny really isn't that bad. But then we get on the driveway with all its bumps and potholes and I say sorry nearly a dozen times, for what I don't know, and then we're on the road to save our people. That's what I keep reminding myself of as time passes - it gets me through the initially awkward silence that turns into a comfortable quiet once I actually get myself situated in the seat.

I think it's been about an hour when someone finally speaks up.

"Hey," Daryl says, "I know you weren't runnin' off." He's talking to Michonne, I realize, when he glances over at her. "Thing is, the trail went cold. You know that, right?"

Michonne says nothing.

Daryl continues. "If it was any different, I'd be right out there with you."

She looks at him then - it's a small gaze that probably means nothing to the three of us in the backseat, but something entirely different to Daryl. This seems to be her own little answer, because Daryl nods to himself and reaches forward to fiddle with the radio. Michonne opens the glove compartment and Daryl says, "Hand me one of them CD's?"

"...-find sanctuary-..."

The radio crackles to life and we're all suddenly staring right at it.

"Was that a voice?" Bob asks. Daryl shushes him.

"Termin-...-de-mined to survive-...-keep alive-..."

"Watch out!" I yell, because without any warning there's a walker in front of the car about to splash all over the windshield. Daryl swerves and I'm thrown into Bob, then again and this time Tyreese takes the brunt of my body weight, and when Daryl finally gets the car back under control he has to stop because right in front of us is one of the biggest clusters I've ever seen. Hundreds, if not _thousands_ of walkers on the road, stretching all the way down the upcoming hill. The ones nearest to us swarm the car almost immediately.

"Grab something!" Daryl orders; Tyreese's arm does just fine as the car is floored in reverse, getting us away from the swarm, but as we keep going walkers get piled under the back tires and Zach's super fast car is stuck at the edge of hell. That's what it looks like at least, because even with my time out on my own and traveling the state, I've _never_ seen a cluster this big.

"Go to the left!" Michonne says; Daryl tries but the car doesn't even move.

"We're jammed up- make a run for the gaps right there!"

Daryl turns in his seat to look at the three of us in the backseat. My eyes are wide and I really, really want my machete but I can't get it until I get out. "You three, you make a run for the woods and you don't stop for nothin', you hear me?"

I nod. I think Bob does too.

"Now!"

Michonne and Bob open their doors, Daryl punches open the sunroof; I'm nearly jumping out of the car when Bob manages to shuffle out, ignoring the arms that reach up to grope at my legs. Once I have my machete out and in my grip, I'm weaving through the crowd of undead and slashing at anything that gets too close. Somehow I make it to the treeline, having followed the purple of Michonne's tank top; she grabs my arm and yanks me away from a walker that gets within inches of my throat, before sticking her katana into its face. I want to thank her but there's no time - Bob finally reaches us after gunning down a path through the swarm. He turns and we watch as Tyreese literally hammers away at walkers that have surrounded him.

"Go, go!" He's yelling, crying out with rage and fury each time he slams down on a walker. I don't want to leave him behind but I have to when Michonne is shoving me in front of her and telling me to just keep going.

We run for what seems like hours but is probably just a couple of minutes. Each of us hack, slash, and shoot at anything that's up and walking without a pulse, and only stop when we get to a small clearing and Daryl says, "Hold up."

It's silent for a short few seconds. Then, there's rustling in the trees and the four of us slowly stalk forward. Two walkers stumble out into clearing - Daryl aims at the one on the right, but then something bashes the back of its skull in and Tyreese is there, too. He falls to his knees, gasping for air and covered in gore. I don't let the relief stop me, however, because more walkers are coming and we have to run. Michonne kills the walker on the left, Bob and Daryl drag Tyreese forward, and we keep going. Just like Michonne said.

* * *

Sometime later, after we lose the swarm, we stop to catch our breath at Turner Creek.

Michonne says that Barnesville is just a few miles downstream - Daryl folds up the map the two of them had been looking at. We're about to go, and Michonne and Daryl do, but Bob and I stop when Tyreese just keeps wringing out his shirt at the bank.

"Ty," Bob says. "Ty!"

Tyreese ignores him.

"There should be a town a few miles south."

"Lost a whole night," Tyreese says then. Water squirts from his shirt as he continues to wring at the fabric. "My sister. Everybody else… they're probably dead."

"Well it helps to keep movin'," Bob replies. Tyreese looks up at us then. His eyes are dark and even in the afternoon light I can tell all he can see is the darkness, too.

"No. It doesn't."

I can tell because I've been there. I think everyone has been there, one time or another - some of us have even lived there. Relied on it to keep us going. I have. Bob has, because I could see it in _his_ eyes that first day he came to the Prison.

Even though I want to say something, I don't. It isn't easy bringing someone out of that. I follow Daryl and Michonne and keep my mouth shut.

We walk for about another hour, only stopping a couple of times - once for Daryl to pick up some kind of stone, the other time for us to go on a pee break - until we come across an old, run down car shop. Vines have taken the area back, the overgrowth almost beautiful. Daryl stops here, walking into the parking lot, and we follow.

"See anything?" I ask. Daryl shrugs, says maybe, and then we're tearing away vines and prying open a minivan when Michonne spots blue under all of that plant life. Daryl tries hot wiring it, but it needs a new battery, so we go to face the front of the building - even more vines than before. This time, we hack at it with our blades, but Tyreese goes at it violently even after Daryl warns him to take it easy. And then, a few moments later, walkers burst out from the vines.

There are four of them - one for Daryl, and Bob, and two for Tyreese. Michonne slices off an arm of the one groping at Daryl, and he finishes it off with a quick thrust of his blade. I turn and jab my machete into one of the walkers snapping its jaws at Tyreese. I can't get a clear view of the second walker; Michonne decapitates the one going after Bob. Tyreese has a chance to back away now - the walker has no grip on him, but he's holding onto its arms like there's nothing else in the world he can grab.

"Tyreese!" I call out. "Let go of it, man."

"Ty, let go of him!" Michonne yells. He doesn't listen, even when he's tumbling backwards and the walker goes with him; he still holds on. So then Daryl and I are yanking the walker away, throwing it to the ground, and Bob puts a bullet into its cranium. Daryl helps him up off the ground and he stumbles away, heaving in gulps of air.

"Why the hell didn't you let go of it?" Michonne asks him. He glances at her for the shortest moment, but says absolutely nothing and walks away.

When we clear away enough vines to get into the shop, Daryl and Bob are the ones to go looking for the battery - Michonne, Tyreese and I stay outside to clear off the rest of the van. It's quiet; the air is so tense and thick that I could cut through it with my machete.

"You should have let it go," Michonne says after a bit. Tyreese looks up at her, stalks forward to stand a foot or two away.

"The hell do you know about it, huh? You the damn expert?"

"No. I just don't wanna see you die."

A pause.

"Is that what you're tryin' to do? Do you even _know_ what you're tryin' to do?"

 _Was I like that?_ I ask myself. Recklessly cutting down the dead at any chance I got? Not caring about whether or not one of them tore into me like wolves do to rabbits in those nature documentaries. I barely remember the days, weeks, months between _not alone_ and _alone_ , but remember it all at the same time.

Tyreese turns away from her and stomps some leaves into the ground.

"I know you're pissed," Michonne continues, "and you have every reason to be. But anger makes you _stupid._ And stupid gets you _killed._ "

"Aren't you still angry? About the Governor? What he _did_?"

I blink. Look up from the window because I'd just been standing there awkwardly and not knowing what to say.

"If he was here right now… I'd cut him in two. 'Cause that's how it needs to be."

Tyreese's expression shifts.

"But I'm not angry. I was."

"Then why are you still goin' out looking for him?"

Michonne doesn't respond for a moment or two, and just when I think she won't say anything at all, she murmurs, "I don't know."

We go back to cutting away at the vines.

* * *

It's maybe another hour and the van has been cleared away. I'm in the front seat, Daryl's under the hood, Bob's sitting against the building just a couple of feet away. A few yards ahead, Michonne and Tyreese wait. Daryl and Bob are smoking. When I asked for a cigarette Daryl let me have one, but it was old and stale and made me cough up my lungs so he took it away. Now I sit and wait. Fiddle with the dashboard, familiarize myself with it - Daryl said I could drive the rest of the way as long as I was careful. So I'm gonna be careful.

"You never told us about the group you were with before."

I look up. I think Daryl is talking to me, but when I see that he's looking over at Bob, I let out a quiet breath of relief. Not that I'm hiding anything, but… talking gets hard sometimes. Explaining myself is even harder.

"Which one?" Bob asks. There's a familiarity in that question I can't quite place. Daryl shrugs, as if he didn't expect it.

"Y'know, when you found me out on that road, I almost kept walking."

"Why is that?"

"'Cause I was done bein' a witness. Two times, two different groups. I was the last one standing. Like I was supposed to see it happen, over and over, like it's some kinda curse."

Bob pauses and takes a drag from his cigarette. I almost wish I had some way to tune out of this conversation - maybe listen to some music or put on earmuffs or go search through the car shop for anything useful. But I don't. Gotta listen because it almost sounds like me talking.

"But… when it's just _you_ out there with the _quiet_ … used to be I'd drink a bottle of anything just so I could shut my eyes at night. Figured the Prison, the people, thought it'd be easier."

I think it's me talking until I realize I'm not. I'm just sitting here, listening, ignoring the ghosts of my past because I'm trying to move forward. I think. Doing this, going out on the run for people I've only known for two months - it's easier than anything else I could have done.

"The run to the Big Spot, I did it for me."

"You gotta keep busy." Daryl takes a swig of water.

"No. I went so I could get me a bottle."

The gas gauge looks awfully entertaining right now.

"Of anything. I picked it up, I held it in my hand, but put it down. I put it down so hard it took the whole damn shelf with it."

Speedometer. 20 miles per hour, 40 miles per hour, 60, 80…

"That's what brought on the walkers, and that's what got Zach killed."

The steering wheel is hot in my grip, warmed up by the afternoon sun, and even though it hurts to hold onto it I let it burn. Let it feel. Let _me_ feel because I need to focus on something other than anger.

"That's bullshit," Daryl says.

It isn't fair to be mad at Bob, I know it isn't. I wasn't even that close to Zach and all I ever did was be a shitty person to him. But I'm still mad because I never said sorry. Never got to. Never will. That's on me. But it's hard not to think that it's on Bob, too.

He says nothing, so Daryl knocks on the windshield. "Try the engine, Michael. Just rub the red and the green wire together. Ain't rocket science."

I let go of the steering wheel, bend down and, after a few strokes, the engine roars to life with a sputter and some rumbles. Daryl smacks his hands together, whistles for Michonne and Tyreese, then shuts the hood.

"Sasha and me picked that spot," he tells Bob. "He took you with us. Ain't no way anybody could've known. You ain't gonna be standin' alone, not no more. Let's go."

Daryl gets in the passenger seat, Tyreese and Michonne get in the back with Bob. When Daryl gives me the go ahead I press my foot on the gas, gentle yet firm, and before I know it, we're on the road again.

* * *

We're a quarter mile away from the school when we have to stop at a roadblock.

I park the van in an alley between a strip mall and a clinic, and we cover it with old newspapers and the blood of a walker to make it look abandoned; I even get Tyreese and Daryl to throw the body on the hood, up against the windshield for extra effect. Then, we leave for Peachtree.

Once we arrive, our navigator being Tyreese, the five of us sneak in through a cracked window; Daryl takes point, and I go in between Bob and Michonne. We stay quiet; there's no way we can tell if there are any dead here.

We exit into a common area. The way we came from was a wing called the Learning Resource Center - Daryl leads us across and we make our way into some kind of classroom. There are cages of all shapes and sizes on almost every side, some of them undisturbed other than a thick layer of dust coating… well, everything. It looks as though someone tried making this into a hideout. There's a dirtied sleeping bag behind the front desk and a sheet hanging down, collapsed from someone most likely trying to make a tent or shelter of some sort. But I ignore it and sweep the room with everyone else; there isn't much to find, other than a notebook and a pocket knife that I slip into my hunting satchel. We move on.

Finally, after a few more room searches and not much luck with finding anything useful, we find a room boarded up that looks just too good to pass up. When we get inside, we find another classroom, but this one is smaller and has glass cabinets filled to the brim with all kinds of medicine.

"Anything ending with '-cilin' or '-cin'," Bob tells us, "C-I-N. Grab it. We'll dissolve the pills in the IVs, inject it directly into the bloodstream. Dosage will be tricky, but considering the time we lost…" he trails off. I shove a handful of pill bottles into a bag, repeat the process a few more times.

"How'd you do?" Bob asks when Tyreese and Daryl return from searching a closet.

"Bags, tubes, clamps, connectors, everything on the list," Tyreese says. I see that he's a bit more calm from earlier; less intense, less angry. It helps me be calm, too.

"What about y'all?" Daryl asks.

"We got it all."

"Yeah. We're good."

Daryl picks up his crossbow. "Alright, let's roll."

We leave into a different part of the school; this hallway, maybe this entire wing, is more run down and apocalypse-y. Roofing and wires hang down from the ceilings, some of it scattered over the ground, and there are some bullet holes in the walls, too. Some of the doors have even been ripped from their hinges. Daryl peers into one of the doorways and we hear walkers growl; Michonne says, "Up ahead," so we go down the rest of the way and into a doorway on the right.

Inside, it's dark. The beams of our flashlights can only illuminate so much, reflecting off of steel cages and dirtied tile. "Hey, the door's busted," Bob whispers, and while he, Tyreese and Daryl barricade the door with cages, Michonne and I move forward to find another way out.

"There," I say, pointing my flashlight at a sign with a stairway icon on it. We keep going, slowly but surely, and then a walker is bursting out at Tyreese; he kills it with a few bludgeons to its face and then we're moving again. I get to the stairway, grab a chain locked around the door handles, then recoil when decaying hands reach through the opening. Walkers begin to stumble through the barricade at the other end of the hallway.

"We can take 'em!" Tyreese says, but Bob raises his gun and yells that they're sick, and that if we get their blood on us or breathe in their stink we can get sick, too.

"How many?" Daryl asks. I shine my light through the opening, try to look around, but it doesn't help. I can't see more than two or three but it's not worth the chance.

"Can't even tell," I respond.

"How do we even know the ones in there aren't any different?" Tyreese asks with a motion to the doors. The walkers growl and moan and I think I hear one snap its jaws.

"We don't," Michonne says. Her hand is gripped around her katana, reached up and back over her shoulder. Ready for a fight.

"Well that's gotta change sometime," Daryl grumbles, then, quite literally smashes a chair, and uses one of the legs to break the chain. Bob shoots one, Michonne decapitates another, and I slice through the eyes of the third walker before jamming my machete into its face. The rest of the stairwell is empty, so Tyreese hands Daryl his crossbow and we start to ascend.

When we get to the top floor, there's another hallway that's ransacked and lined with desks, chairs, shelves and papers are strewn all over the place. More of the dead are off towards the left, so we go right - only to be faced with a dead end.

"There's no exit!" Michonne says after cutting through a walker. Bob shoves chairs and desks to the floor, probably to slow down the dead.

"Then we make one," Daryl grunts, climbing onto a large windowsill; Tyreese yells for him to get down, and then a fire extinguisher is flying through one of the windows and glass is shattering into a hundred pieces.

"C'mon, jump down onto the walkway below," Daryl says, helping Michonne up with Tyreese. She does so with a grunt, and Bob yells, "They're here!" So Daryl and Tyreese shove me through and even though I fucking hate heights I jump anyways. Michonne catches me, helps to steady my balance, and I'm gripping onto her for dear life because there's dozens of walkers below us.

Tyreese, Daryl, and Bob all jump next, in that order - right until Bob stumbles, damn near tumbling over the edge, but he catches himself and his bag is dangling above the walkers. They grab onto it but he won't let go, even though everyone asks him to. I'm reminded of earlier, back at the car shop when Tyreese just wouldn't let go of the walker even though it could have killed him. After a tense minute Bob yanks the bag up and it slams onto the walkway; I hear something thud, then slosh around. Daryl and Tyreese pull him up but I don't even notice it because I'm staring right at the tip of a bottle poking out of the bag. Michonne is, too, and then Daryl stalks forward to scoop it up in his grip.

It's liquor.

Whiskey, maybe. Bourbon. Everything is quiet other than the walkers reaching up at us from the concrete below.

"You got no meds in your bag?" Daryl asks. "Jus' this?"

Bob stays silent and I hate it.

"You shoulda kept walkin' that day," Daryl says before rearing back to throw the bottle; he stops when Bob reaches the Beretta at his hip.

"Don't.

Daryl blinks at him. There's fury in his eyes as he stomps up to Bob, getting up in his face like a lion, pushing him backwards and snatching the gun away from his belt. Bob looks like a scolded child. Daryl grabs him by the shirt, pushing him back to the edge of the walkway, and I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because if things had gone differently at the Big Spot, Zach would be here instead. Or back at the Prison helping everyone else. Or just _alive._ Breathing.

He isn't.

"Just let it go, Daryl," Tyreese says. "The man's made his choice. Nothing you can do about it… jus' gotta let it go."

Daryl does. He backs away, just a bit, letting go of Bob's shirt.

"I didn't wanna hurt nobody. It was just for when it gets quiet," is all Bob can say. Daryl stares at him for a second before shoving the bottle into his chest.

"Take one sip? When those meds get in our people, I will _beat your ass into the ground_ ," he growls. His voice is so low and hoarse that it would have scared me if I weren't so angry myself. "You hear me?"

Bob says nothing. Daryl backs away, turns, then picks up his crossbow and his bag and leaves. Tyreese and Michonne follow him but I stay. Watch Bob grab his bag. Drop the bottle in it. He looks up at me and I speak before thinking about it.

"Zach died for you," I whisper. Only loud enough for Bob to hear. He looks back at me and his face is so guilty… and then I leave.

* * *

 _"Let's crash,_

 _go up in flames._

 _Do you wanna come with me?_

 _I wanna see what's next…"_

* * *

 **clarification : the song is called "Drive, Part 1", there won't be a Part 2 to the chapter arc. just wanted to make that known. this is also the longest chapter i've written in, like, forever, so thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting and have an amazing day!**


	11. Eleven: Child I Will Hurt You

_**Chapter Eleven: Child I Will Hurt You**_

 _"Keep them locked away,_

 _reduce them to strays,_

 _clean their cuts and scrapes._

 _Mercy we abstain,_

 _hope you're entertained_

 _snow covers the stain._

 _Foray, forever…"_

* * *

It's a few minutes before we get back to the van. The entire walk is quiet; Daryl, Tyreese and Michonne are clumped together, but I walk alone, and so does Bob just a couple of yards behind me. He keeps his distance and I'm glad. When we get there, take everything off of it and back it into a parking lot, Daryl and I wait in the car as Michonne and Tyreese work out a route back to the Prison. Bob smokes.

"Taking Highway 100," Tyreese tells us when they return.

"I heard."

Michonne gets in; she's driving this time. As Bob and Tyreese finish loading everything into the van, Michonne talks to Daryl.

"You were right, what you said before. About the trail goin' cold."

Daryl plays with the jasper stone he found a couple of hours ago. Stares at it, deep and shallow and all sparkly in the sunlight.

"I don't need to go out anymore."

"Good." Daryl shuts his door. Bob and Tyreese get in, shut their own doors, and then Michonne drives off.

Time flies by. I don't know how long it is, or how short it could be. Everyone is quiet. We have our medicine, we have our lives. Hope? I'm not sure. That's because we're _here,_ miles away from home, and there are people there dying. They don't have their lives.

We take detours. Go around roadblocks, car pileups, downed power lines and trees that have fallen over in the middle of the road. Sometimes we can just drive around them, other times we have to find a new route. It wastes us precious time. But eventually, when the sun has been set and replaced with the moon, we finally get home. A part of the fence has fallen and the hordes got in, but seemed to have been gunned down; it's a worry _and_ a relief.

We get out. Tyreese runs to his sister, I help the others unload the medicine and get it into A Block; before I can follow Daryl and Michonne through the doors, Daryl stops me and takes Ty's bag from my arms before I can protest.

"Go," he says. "Get some rest. You did good today."

There's this weird feeling in my chest, like the way you get when an adult says they're proud of you or that you've done a good job. I try saying no, I stay some more and help, too, but it comes out like, "Thanks, Daryl. Come get me if you need help."

I find Beth in our room. Not her cell, but the room with the piano and the couch and the fuzzy memories that make me smile when nobody is watching. She's handing Judith over to Carl and he nods at me as he walks away.

"Hey," Beth smiles when she sees me, "You guys have any luck?"

I nod, take her hand when it's offered. "Found a bunch of meds. The sick should be getting them soon."

"Good." Beth brings me into our room. The piano candles flicker about as we sit down on the couch and I lay my head on Beth's lap. She runs her fingers through my hair and it descends into a peaceful kind of quiet until I decide to speak up.

"You were right," I say, looking up at her. "It's… it isn't my fault that I'm alive. Guess I just… needed reminding of that."

Beth smiles and my belly explodes.

"I'm glad."

For a while we talk about nothing in particular. I tell her of our journey today, about losing Zach's car and Tyreese almost losing himself, then about the sick walkers at the college and Bob's liquor, and I eventually fall asleep after describing what Daryl's jasper rock looked like in the sunlight.

* * *

The next morning, just as the sun is reaching the far corner of the sky, Beth wakes me up with breakfast. We eat oatmeal, then play piano, and after kissing her on the cheek I leave to go take a shower. Afterwards, I dress in a pair of old work pants, cuff the ends, then slip on a dark gray shirt that's a bit too tight on me. When I remember that I'll be messing with walker bodies today, I tie a bandanna around my neck; it'll be lazy day for me, even though there's plenty more work to do.

Before I forget, I make sure my mother's locket is secure around my neck, and that my special picture is in my pocket. I always keep it there now.

On my way from the bathrooms, I pass Hershel. He's dressed in a fresh outfit and looks like he's gotten loads of sleep.

"You doing good this morning?" I ask, slowing down to a stop.

"A lot better than last night, 'specially now that we have those meds. Thank you for that, Michael."

"Wasn't just me," I say, grabbing my wrist with my other hand. Hershel nods.

"Even so, you _helped_. That's all that matters."

I smile, all bashful and shy, then leave to go help outside.

The sun is hot and I like to pretend I only sweat a little bit; after an hour of piling up bodies and loading them up into Michonne's trailer, she and Hershel leave to unload and burn them at the far corner of the field just outside the prison.

"You tagging along?" Michonne asks.

"Nah. I'll stay and finish up this pile. Maybe come on the next trip down."

Michonne shrugs, then gets into the jeep and drives away. A few more minutes pass before I actually _do_ finish up the pile; I pull the bandanna down from my face and slide the sweaty work gloves off my hands, then head inside C's common area for a break.

When I get there, I see that Beth is sitting at one of the tables and fiddling with something. In her hands. She's wearing that bright yellow tank top and there's a glint of concentration in her gaze as I sit down beside her. For a few seconds I just take in her face, soak it up like sunlight, because why shouldn't I?

"Hey," I whisper.

"Hey," Beth whispers back. I peer over her shoulder to look at what's in her hands - my bandanna.

"How'd you get that?" I ask, looking down at my wrist. I hadn't even realized it was gone.

"It came off sometime last night," she replies, reaching over to gently take ahold of my arm. "Figured I'd wash it off for you. There was walker gunk and dirt all over it, so…" Beth trails off as she ties it around my wrist. I lean forward, kiss her on the lips and smile.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Y'know, you should keep this thing clean so it doesn't get all stinky and gross."

"Yeah, but why would I when I could have you do it for me?"

Beth bumps against me and I laugh.

"Okay, okay, I'll keep it clean."

She tugs at the bandanna around my neck.

"You wanna come help me with the kids in the Admin?"

"I would, but I'm on walker duty. They're gonna need help clearing all those bodies out. Raincheck, though?"

Beth sighs, but I know it's playful. "I guess I'll just have to deal with dirty diapers and scraped knees all by myself…"

"You'll survive. Plus, you can play them some music with the piano. Maybe teach them that song you taught me?"

"Okay. But I'll hold you to that raincheck."

"You have my word. But, hey-"

An explosion shakes the world.

Beth and I jump up from the table; Maggie runs past us, out the doors, so we follow her because whatever _that_ was came from outside.

We're not the only ones running outside; Carl comes with us and Rick, Daryl and Tyreese are all gathered at a corner of the Yard fence. Bob and Sasha, too, and when we get there everyone is quiet because an army has just blown one of our watch towers to pieces.

Below, down the hill and just in front of the outermost fence, is a caravan of cars; men and women, all armed to the teeth, face us. A man in an eyepatch stands on top of a tank. A fucking _tank._

"Rick!" The man on the tank yells. "Come down here! We need to talk."

Beth grabs my hand and squeezes tight. Someone's breath hitches; I think it's Maggie, or maybe Sasha behind me. Rick balls his fists and they shake.

"Who is this?" I ask Beth.

"The Governor," she says.

And I can feel the fear in her voice.

"It's not up to me!" Rick bellows. "There's a council now, they run this place!"

"Is Hershel on the council?" The Governor asks. He motions to a woman and she walks over to a jeep, then…

 _Oh, god._

She pulls Hershel, tied up, from the back seat.

Beth gasps. Maggie covers her mouth. My mouth gets dry and the air is suddenly thick enough that I could drink it.

"What about Michonne?"

A man pulls her, also tied up, from the same vehicle. Hershel and Michonne are led to the space in front of the tank and dropped to their knees.

"She on the council, too?"

Rick and Daryl share a glance.

"I don't make decisions anymore!"

"You're making the decisions today, Rick. Come down here. Let's… let's have that talk."

Beth is shaking. Whether it's from fear, or anger, or both, I can't tell. There's this pit in my belly and it makes me wanna run, hide away until the darkness comes and swoops me away from this situation. But I can't do that. Won't let myself. I gotta stay here and stand as tall as my 5'5 body will let me. For Beth, for Hershel, for Michonne. Daryl and Rick and Maggie and Carl.

For me.

Rick takes his son, cups the side of his neck.

"We can do this, alright?" He whispers. Carl nods and then Rick is going through the gate, walking down the gravel until he reaches the fence.

Daryl moves to stand in front of Sasha and Tyreese.

"We can't take 'em all on. We'll go through the Admin building, through the woods like we planned. We ain't got the numbers no more. When's the last time someone checked the stash on the bus?"

"Day before we hit the Big Spot," Sasha answers. "We were running low on rations then, even lower now."

"Yeah, we'll manage. Things go south, everyone heads to that bus. Let everybody know."

"What if everybody doesn't know when things go bad?" Tyreese asks. "How long do we wait?"

"As long as we can."

Rick and the Governor talk for a few moments. I can only watch with a sickening feeling as time passes; it's slow, and dragging along like legs through wet Georgian clay, until Daryl presses something into my chest; a rifle, an M16 with a 20 round magazine. I let go of Beth's hand when she's given one of her own. Eventually everyone is armed with enough weapons to make a stand, but it _isn't_ enough to fight them all off.

More time passes. Carl says he could kill the Governor; that he has him in his sights, that he's a good shot, but Daryl talks him out of it. Says he could miss and start something else.

I only catch parts of the Governor and Rick's conversation; the Governor wants us out. Rick is negotiating. He even tries for us _sharing_ the Prison; not even having to look at each other until we're ready for that. Rick is trying for peace. _Trying._ Even when the Governor jumps down from the tank and puts Michonne's katana up to Hershel's neck and I shudder out a tight breath. I want it to work. I want it to work so bad because if this all fails, if it was all for nothing, all this loss and hurt and pain… I don't know what I'll do.

"We're not too far gone," Rick says. I hear him. I believe him. I wasn't too gone.

I'm reminded that there's a short moment that exists.

"We _get to come back_."

It's just a few seconds, right before something bad happens; the air is calm and the sky is unmoving and for a fraction of that moment it feels as though everything will be okay, everything will stay the same and nothing will change.

"I know."

Then the world keeps moving, the sky is a torrent of thunder and lightning and chaos. Life goes back to normal because nothing, _nothing_ can stop that moment from happening, and that bad thing from tearing us all apart.

"I know… _we_ _all, can change._ "

And then

it all

comes

crashing

* * *

 _"Liar_. _"_

* * *

down.

The Governor swings. Michonne's blade slices right through Hershel and suddenly the atmosphere erupts in screams. Sobbing. Yelling. Blood drains from Hershel's throat, slips from his skin like liquid life.

Rick fires the first shot and then gunfire is upon us.

I don't know when I start shooting. I don't think I hit anyone. Maybe the tears in my eyes are too blinding, too shielding. Beth screams for her daddy and Maggie roars in anguish and I'm standing there, shooting at strangers, because a man with an eyepatch just turned our world upside down. Shook it around and tossed it to the ground and told us all to _go to hell_.

At some point the tank tears through our fences and begins driving right for us. Maggie runs off, then Beth takes my hand and we follow her to another section of the fence, then we continue shooting. Their cars move and spread across the field, running over our crops and through the graveyard.

"I'm out of ammo!" Beth says over the gunfire.

"Run for the bus, I'll cover you!" Maggie orders. "Both of you, go!"

I fire off one more shot and it's my last. Beth and I go, sprinting through the Yard as bullets fly past us and explosions shake the ground. A window explodes, the main pavilion collapses when the tank blows half of it to smithereens. Everything is falling around us and I just about fall with it, too.

We reach the bus. Another shot from the tank destroys a part of the wall and two of ours are thrown through the air.

"Glenn's in there, I have to get him!" Maggie says, crouching low as she heads for the bus door.

"I'm going with you!"

"No- get these people on the bus, be ready to drive, I'll be right back!"

"What if you're not?!"

"You'll have to go without us-"

"I won't leave without-"

Maggie grabs her sister and there's an urgency in her eyes I've never seen before. "Beth, Beth, you have to get them on the bus, it's your job-we've all got jobs to do." Then she's handing Beth her rifle and running back into the fray. I drop mine to the ground and I'm about to push Beth into the bus and go in after her, but I can't because I remember the kids are still in the Admin building. Too many children are dying these days and I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try to save them.

"Beth," I croak out; my throat is hoarse from yelling. I bring her over to the bus door because she's shaking like a leaf and I don't want the wind to carry her away. "I have to go get the kids."

"What?! No, not by yourself-"

" _Don't_ , Beth please. Trust me. Stay here, I _will_ be back. I _will._ "

Beth stares at me, wide eyed with her face streaked in tears, and before I go I kiss her one last time. It's my promise.

"Be ready to go, okay?" I tell her, backing up. My fingers slip out of her grip but I don't let that scare me. Can't. "Just be ready."

I turn and follow the sound of screaming. Every time I see one of our own I make sure to tell them to head for the bus - Jeanette, Alfred, Yolanda… At some point, I reach Maggie in C's common area.

"What are you doing?!" She asks as we run through one of the hallway thresholds.

"Getting the kids," I reply, "are they still in Admin?"

"They should be- Jesus, Michael, you can't go on your own-"

"Get Glenn," I tell her as we reach the doorway to A Block. "Get him, and get back to the bus. I'll be there soon. Go, Maggie!"

She looks like she wants to protest, drag me along with her, but after a short millisecond she descends into death row.

Then I run.

A wall explodes and knocks me off balance; I get back up, wipe the sweat from my brow, because I have a job to do. I have to get the kids. Have to. Can't let them die, can't let Isaac die. Not again.

When I finally get there, I yell, "Hey! Is anybody in here? Luke, Molly- anyone?!"

There is no response.

I check most of the rooms and only find remnants of what used to be; half eaten packs of crackers, empty water bottles, a pack of cigarettes and a zippo lighter. I pocket them and go for the piano room.

It's empty in here, too. The candles are out, my satchel and revolver belt are on the couch and it's as if nothing has changed. I almost cry. I want to, because everyone is gone. But that means they're on the bus; I can still make it.

The floorboards behind me creak.

I do a 180° turn and someone is standing at the doorway. He's a teen, maybe my age or younger, and is pointing a shotgun right at my chest. He has curly red hair, acne, a cut on his cheek and there is fear in his eyes; dirt and blood cover him in patches and I think there's a gunshot wound in his shoulder.

"Wait-" I say, holding up my hands, "-just wait…"

"Stay back!" He orders. The teen takes a step forward and I try not to flinch.

"Please," I beg. "We can go- we can leave and-"

"STOP!" He cries. There are tears in his eyes. "You killed my mother. You… you all killed… you're killers…"

"No," I say, "we're not. We don't _have_ to be."

He shakes his head. Pumps his shotgun, and when I reach forward and shove it out of the way he pulls the trigger. Piano keys go off in a cacophony of sound as the buckshot hits it.

The teenager screams and I'm shoved backwards, back until my spine slams into a wall and we're fighting for control over the shotgun.

"Please," I try to say, but it comes out as a groan when I yank away the shotgun and throw it across the room. I don't want to hurt him, I don't want to hurt anybody. "Stop, we-"

His fist collides with my face once, twice, three times and I see stars. He takes me by the shirt and slams me into the wall; I think there are pennies in my mouth because I can taste copper. When the teen rears back for another punch I spit blood in his eyes and he stumbles back, stunned, and I take this as my chance to knee him in the gut. He screams when I jab my thumb into his shoulder, but then he tears a knife from his belt and brings it down on my left thigh. I let out a yelp, falling backwards into the floor.

"Please just _go_ ," I beg, crying, screaming when I rip the knife out of my flesh. I have to beg, I have to try, I have to save the children…

He doesn't listen. He gets down on his knees, looming over me like a cloud, and when he coils his fingers around my throat and begins to choke the life out of me there is something I have to do. I _have_ to, or I'll die.

When I stab him, it's in the chest.

His breath halts, just for a moment. A short moment as his blood trails down the knife and onto my hands; and then he collapses, the blade still inside him, wheezing and choking on his own blood. Some of it spills out of his lips.

"N...no- wait," I whimper, dragging myself onto my knees. I lean over him, lift the top half of his body up and pull it into my lap, because I don't want him to die. I want him to stop bleeding.

He's looking up at me. His eyes are green and there's that terrible, terrible fear again, making his body tremble and quake. I brush hair out of his face and then I'm rocking us back and forth, shushing him as he whimpers and cries and bleeds to death all over me. I want to say I'm sorry, that I didn't mean for this to happen, that I came to save some children but all I did was hurt one. I _killed_ one.

Killed?

Oh.

He's dead now.

I don't know how long it's been. Long enough for me to start crying, to realize that I have to put a knife in his skull to stop him from coming back, to actually do that and then cry harder.

 _I killed someone._

I killed someone.

I took a life. _I_ took a life. Maybe I knew this day would come. Maybe I was afraid of it. Maybe I figured I could be spared from having to steal someone away from this world.

I was wrong.

Time passes. I don't know how long, but I do know that the explosions have stopped and the gunfire has ceased. I cover up the teenager's body with the sheet from the couch, then grab my satchel and slip it over my shoulders. There's blood all over me, it slips over my fingers, but I don't care. I just take as much as I can, all of the boy's weapons and ammo and anything useful; but I don't touch the knife.

I can never touch it again.

His shotgun has three shells in it and he has a baggie with five more in his backpack. I took it as well, dropped his Colt pistol into it, along with anything else in the Admin building that I can use. For what reason? Not sure. I'm picking through the ruins of what used to be my home, and I hate myself for it, but what else am I supposed to do?

 _Cry._

 _Sleep._

 _Slit your wrist again and pray nobody comes to your rescue this time._

I ignore that thought because my people are out there. And it's tempting; it really, really is.

 _We've all got jobs to do._

I buckle my revolver belt around my waist and leave the piano room.

When I finally make my way out of the Admin building, I see that the bus is gone. All that's left are bodies and smoke and walkers, which force me back into Admin. I shut the doors, block them with a chair, then rush back through the hallway and shatter one of the back windows with a paper weight. I know won't make it out of here on my feet; each step sends fire through my leg, pulsing from the still bleeding stab wound on my thigh. I'll need some kind of vehicle… So I climb through the window, drop onto soft soil and slowly circle around the back of the prison. Here there are fewer walkers; I only take a few out with the shotgun as I go because I can't be bothered to stop and take out my switchblade.

When I finally make it to my destination - the parking lot where we stash our vehicles - I slide through a tied up gap in the fence and get into into the driver's seat of the Hyundai. The keys are where they always are; in the middle console, hidden in the folds of a porno magazine. When I turn on the engine and check the fuel gauge, all I can do is curse because there's less than a quarter tank left.

Can't think about that though. Just gotta go.

I shut the door and drive away from the destruction. I don't look at any of it because if I do I'll start crying. I go down the gravel road and around some of the vehicles I have to turn around at one point because if I'd kept going I would have driven over the graves and I can't do that. When I get to the main gate I stop. Swivel my head.

 _This was home._

But not anymore.

I drive onto the main road and only stop when the smoke from the burning Prison is out of sight, hidden by the trees in a backroad. I pull to the side, put the car in park, and for a moment everything is deadly quiet.

Then I cry.

I don't just cry. I _sob._ I wail at the top of my lungs and hold myself because there's nobody else to do it for me. I am not numb, I am not on autopilot, I am painfully aware of where I am and this is not where I want to be. I cry so hard that I eventually have to open the door and heave up my oatmeal from this morning. And when that's finished, when I calm myself down and slump back into the seat, there is nothing but me and the fear of being alone again. Even the dead are nowhere to be seen.

I shut the door. Wrap my fingers around the steering wheel.

"Okay," I say to myself, then shift the gear into drive and move on.

* * *

 _"Taught them with solace,_

 _they know a soft caress_

 _to lower your defense._

 _Hide all that you could,_

 _done for the greater good_

 _it's later understood._

 _Foray, forever…"_


	12. Twelve: To Leave Something Behind

_**Chapter Twelve: To Leave Something Behind**_

 _"I cannot say that I know you well,_

 _but you can't lie to me with all these books that you sell,_

 _I'm not trying to follow you to the end of the world,_

 _I'm just trying to leave something behind…"_

* * *

Driving isn't my best skill.

I hadn't even gotten my permit yet before the Turn; I was fifteen and my only driving experience was a few backroads in the Georgian woodlands. Now, two years later, not much has changed about that. I've driven some more, almost crashed a few times. I bet I could almost pass my driver's test if I tried hard enough.

We'll never know that, though, will we?

I stopped once to rip up a part of my shirt and tie it around my thigh. It hurt like a bitch and I cried again, but at least the bleeding will be stopped. _For now._ I think it needs stitches but I might be wrong.

Then I kept driving.

I don't know where I'm going. Should I just leave Georgia altogether? Forget my friends, forget them all, and just start again somewhere else? Maybe I should just do that.

I'm not gonna do that.

 _Someone_ had to have made it out of there alive; not everyone can be dead. So I have to keep trying. I have to find someone.

When I'm looking at the map, trying to find where I am, something walks out into the road and I don't have time to stop. I swerve, the car collides with something, and then I'm _spinningspinningspinningspinning_ until the Hyundai slams into a tree and something hits my head.

Like I said. Driving isn't my best skill.

When I come to, it's been maybe a few minutes and growling is what rouses me from sleep. Well. I wouldn't call it sleep. More like a forced unconsciousness.

There are four walkers surrounding the wreckage of the Hyundai; two on the right side, one on top of the hood, and one crushed in between the Hyundai and the tree I spun into. My head is pounding, I think there's blood dripping down my face. The walkers on the right side keep banging on the windows and I want them to stop, so I use the shotgun to shoot one of them through the window. Its head explodes, my ears are ringing and everything hurts, but I keep going. Shoot the second walker after pumping the shotgun. I notice that more are coming out of the treeline on the other side of the road, so after grabbing the bags and anything left in the Hyundai, I clamber out on the passenger side and circle around.

This side of the woods is clear of walkers, as far as I can tell; I don't know what waits for me, but I know it's better than the four, five, six… nine walkers trailing after me.

So I descend into the trees and hope for the best.

* * *

I'm moving until sundown.

There's enough light to see the space in front of me, whatever pink skyline that shows through the foliage of the forest; I've made detours, circled around the dead, even taken a couple of breathers. But there's always something that keeps me moving, whether it be a cluster of walkers or just my mind telling me to _gogogogogogo._

Eventually, I come across a creek.

The water is cold and refreshing and when I use it to clean myself off, there's more blood than I'd like dripping down into the water. After sitting my ass down on a rock, I lift up the makeshift bandage on my thigh, check the stab wound-small parts have clotted but the rest still ooze with blood. I hate it, too, because this means I'm gonna need stitches. I managed to swipe a half empty first-aid-kit from the Hyundai, so that shouldn't be an issue; but I can't do it here. Not out in the open. I have to find shelter-but where?

So after reloading the shotgun and adjusting all of my things, I stand up and start following the creek. After a few minutes of walking, using the creek as my guide, a cabin comes into view; it's old, one story with a wrap-around porch and dusty old steps leading up to the front door. I climb up them, look at a chain and padlock on the door; I break it off with the butt of the shotgun stock and push the door open. Using my flashlight, I shine around the living room to check for anything that might be dangerous. There's a couch, and a recliner, and a threshold that leads into an almost empty kitchen. A small dining table, two chairs, a sink and stove and cabinets. The bedroom is empty, the _closet_ inside the bedroom is empty, and so is the bathroom. The cabin is clear, so I shut the door, lock it, and then barricade it with the recliner for good measure.

On a nightstand beside the couch is an old gas lamp. The room is illuminated when I light it, so I pocket the flashlight.

I'm safe, for now. So here comes the hard part.

I find a bottle of rubbing alcohol under the bathroom sink. There, I peel off all of my clothes other than my underwear. Use some of the alcohol to clean my superficial wounds; the busted lip, scraped cheek, the gash on my temple from the car crash. I wipe away some of the blood that isn't mine, too, and _god_ I look like a fucking mess. When I move to the stab wound, drizzle some alcohol on it, a yelp escapes before I can stop it.

I begin to give myself stitches and it's as if my entire leg is on fire.

Each time I dig into my skin I have to bite down harder on the rag I stuffed in between my teeth. I cannot scream because that'll attract the dead. When I'm halfway done I have to stop because I see stars, my head gets swimmy, but then I get back to it because I have to finish. Have to get it done and over with and _then_ I can rest.

It's over before I know it. The stitches are jagged and uneven but the bleeding has stopped, finally, and I use the cleanest rag I can find to wipe away the blood and tears. And after wrapping my thigh in gauze, sometime before the moon hits midnight, I slink into a stranger's dusty bed and fall into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The next morning I wake up and almost forget I'm not at the Prison. I'm laying on a real mattress, much like the ones I used before trying to kill myself, even accompanied by the usual layer of dust and scent of mildew. And when I realize this, remember that the Prison is gone and that I'm alone again, I cry and cry and listen to the ambient morning sounds. Birds chirping, leaves falling to the ground, my heartbeat thumping in my chest. It's so quiet that I think I'll go insane. It reminds me about this project I did in freshman year, about this room that's so soundproof you could go crazy from spending more than an hour in there. As time goes on, your ears adjust to the silence and start picking up things you don't usually hear-your lungs, the food sloshing around in your belly, the blood pumping through your veins. There's such an abundance of sound that _you_ become the sound.

Thinking about that has stopped me from crying, so I get up and leave the bedroom.

My leg aches. The stab wound, in all its inch-and-a-half glory, throbs like its entire existence depends on it with each step. But I try to focus on something else, like searching for anything to eat. There's a can of fruit cocktail in a cabinet above the sink and sardines hidden behind window cleaner. I think this was someone's hunting cabin; there is an empty gun rack in the den and a deer head above the fireplace mantle. When I look closer, I notice a framed picture on the mantle of a large man, probably in his mid forties, with the same deer up above me. _So this_ was _a hunting cabin._

I eat the sardines for breakfast and wash it down with water, because even though I hate sardines I'd rather go ahead and get rid of them than save them for later. When that's done and over with, I search the rest of the cabin for anything useful.

In the bedroom, I open the closet to find it half full of old clothes. They're all huge, most likely worn by a man bigger than me by _feet_ , but my other clothes are all dirty and torn and I don't feel like going through the trouble of cleaning them in the creek. This'll do, I guess. After searching through them and eyeing up an interesting looking chest at the bottom of the closet, I find something that I don't entirely hate; a dark blue t-shirt and puffy gray jeans. The sleeves touch my elbows and the shirt is so long it almost goes all the way down to my knees, so I end up having to tuck it into the pants-which I also have to hold up with a belt, and cuff the leg openings, too. But in the end it's comfortable and even though I probably look like a small child, it's worth it.

The chest is locked so I pry it open with a crowbar I found under the kitchen sink. Inside is an amalgam of miscellaneous items; notebooks, markers, pens, papers, climbing gear… and a shiny red weird-looking axe.

"Whoa," is all I can say. It looks almost brand new, with a few scrapes and scuffs on the blade; the shaft is red, curved at a point near the top, with a rubber ergonomic grip. A strip of wax tape on the grip reads: _Gerald's ice axe._ _ **Don't touch!**_

The man in the picture must be Gerald. Well, sorry, dude. _This is my ice axe now._ As if to solidify the new ownership, I take a black sharpie pen, mark out _Gerald's,_ and write my own name just above it. There.

And now I don't know what to do.

Do I sit here? Do I make this my new home? I saw fish in the creek earlier, and if I get a generator here I could have electricity. Running water if I figured out how to do something like that. This cabin has been practically untouched.

I don't know what to do so I just _don't._

* * *

For six days I simply exist. I sit, I read books from Gerald's bedroom, I sleep. I heal. I jerked off a few times-Gerald had his own stash of porn magazines in his bathroom. I try smoking a few times, too, and eventually I get the hang of it after burning up my lungs two or three times. Don't know why I do it; just 'cause, I guess. The nicotine high is weird and makes my head feel swimmy, but I resist the urge to smoke them all away because real smokers make their cigarettes last, right? It's just like the old days before the Prison and I'm surprised at how quickly I get used to it again.

But my food supply is dwindling; there wasn't much I could find back in the Admin building and it went by fast. I'd forgotten how hard it was to ration when all you can think about is the hunger gnawing at your belly like a rat. I have two cans, a granola bar, and a baggie of beef jerky left. That'll get me two or maybe three more days.

On day one I slept a lot. Spent some time with my hands in my pants, but mostly slept.

Day two I changed my bandage and examined the wound for the first time since stitching it up; it was pink and angry looking, and all scabby from what little blood had trickled out, but other than that it looked to be healing fine. So I lathered on some antibiotic ointment and covered it back up.

Day three was the first time I'd left the cabin since finding it.

It was around noon, and hot, and I decided I was going to clean the new clothes that I had been wearing. Gerald probably would have appreciated it. There wasn't any laundry detergent, nor a washing or drying machine for that matter, so I settled on using bar soap and doing the best with what I could.

An hour after that, when I was on my third pair of socks, a walker stumbled into view.

It was mangey and bloody and a furry little tail hung from its mouth. It didn't notice me at first; I'd gone absolutely still. But then it twisted around, milky eyes staring right into my soul, and I stared back. Neither of us moved for a moment, until it did, stumbling towards me like I was the best thing in the world. And in the moment I supposed that I was-to it, at least. I was warm and unmoving and to the dead, that's the best prey.

It tried crossing the creek but tripped on a rock. I still sat there, watching it. It gaped up at me and snapped its jaws and maybe I thought of letting it get right back up and tear into me; end this interim of solitude and move onto better things. But before it could try, before I could even _entertain_ the idea of letting it try, I was stomping its head into the water and watching as the blood and hair brain matter trickled downstream. I could have just died, right then and there, but I didn't because I remembered that I have a promise to keep. And while I'm not usually in the promise making business, that doesn't mean I have to start breaking those I've already made.

Day four, I strung up a collection of pots, pans, metal mugs-anything Gerald left behind-in a small grove of trees not too far downstream from the cabin. And once I was ready, I started making as much noise as possible. This was not a suicide attempt, however.

I was practicing.

It didn't take long for the dead to show up. There were just a few of them at first; an elderly woman with her breasts hanging out of her bathrobe, a mechanic with a chunk of his throat ripped out. They were my first kills using the ice axe, and I killed them with ease. When more showed up, a small horde of five or six, I took my time and recalled movements Michonne made with her sword. I tried mimicking them, twisting and turning and even using some that I'd come up with. A few of them worked, a few didn't, and when those were dead I drew out some more, too. By the time the day was over my wrists were sore and my thigh had been overworked, but it was worth it. I had a better understanding of my new weapon-and of what I was supposed to do. And on day five I repeated these actions and got even better.

It's day six and today I'm leaving Gerald's cabin.

I've gathered everything useful; the rest of my food (just the beef jerky and a few more bottles of boiled water from the creek), an extra outfit from Gerald's closet, a compass that was in the bedroom nightstand, and all of my previous items. I don't know if I'll ever be coming back here. I think I'll miss it, but I know that if- _when_ -I find the others… leaving will be worth it.

"Bye, Gerald."

And just like that I'm gone again.

* * *

 _"Words have come from men and mouth,_

 _but I can't help thinking that I've heard the wrong crowd._

 _When all the water is gone my job will be, too,_

 _and I'm trying to leave something behind…"_

* * *

 **so here we have a bit of a timestretch. idk how many days passed between the prison and terminus - for a while i thought it HAD to have been months because one day they're wearing t-shirts and the next its winter wear and ugh… but anyways. i'm giving it about two, two and a half weeks just for timeline's sake, plus things i have planned later on down the road. up next is a space between spaces, sort of an intermission (mostly because i don't feel like writing another chapter of michael just wandering around all mopey), an 'in between the in betweens.' i'm uploading it and the chapter after it at the same time, just so y'all aren't stuck with less than 500 words as a chapter lmao. anyways, til next time!**

 **p.s. - gerald's ice axe is a Rebel DMM. Basically like Lara Croft's in the Tomb Raider reboot.**


	13. Thirteen: Under Stars

_**Chapter Thirteen - Intermission: Under Stars**_

* * *

 _Days went by and Michael spent them wandering aimlessly._

 _He had no way of direction - no way to tell which way he should go, where he should search, who he could find. Sometimes he felt as if it were all pointless-other times he pushed himself past the brink of exhaustion. But he went on, no matter what. He went without food some days but always found something to sustain himself, and he made sure to ration his water well. He got better at using the knives, too. And while he'd never be as skilled as Michonne with his blades, he liked to think he could someday get damn near close enough._

 _Most nights he spent under the stars; sleeping in a tree, on top of a semi-trailer, in the backseat of a car. One, maybe two of them he cried himself to sleep, because even though he continued to convince himself again and again that they were_ _ **out there**_ _, that he could_ _ **find**_ _them… it was still just so_ _ **hard**_ _to keep going._

 _One day, he came across a sign by a railroad track:_

 **TERMINUS**

 **SANCTUARY FOR ALL**

 **COMMUNITY FOR ALL**

 **THOSE WHO ARRIVE**

 **SURVIVE**

 _He wanted to believe it. A part of him thought he should follow the tracks to this place and maybe even see what it's all about-if his friends saw it, they'd go there too, right?_

 _But after staring at the sign for the longest time, Michael just kept walking._

 _Some days blended into the past, back when he spent those first few months all by himself after his brother died. After Carter, after Chloe, after the gunshot and the bite and all of those tears…_

 _Michael started a list._

 _It was a long, thought out list of all the people he'd lost in order;_

 _ **Mom**_

 _ **Wendell**_

 _ **Mateo**_

 _ **Olivia**_

 _ **Giancarlo**_

 _ **Pennie**_

 _ **Dylan**_

 _ **Carter**_

 _ **Willa**_

 _ **Jeremy**_

 _ **Harrison**_

 _ **Chloe**_

 _ **Isaac**_

 _ **Patrick**_

 _He almost wrote down everyone from the Prison. It was so tempting, so easy to just write them off as gone. But they were the only thing that kept him going; the idea of seeing them again, of kissing Beth's beautiful face just one more time._

 _It was maybe a week before he finally got a clue that someone else had_ _ **actually**_ _made it out of the Prison._

 **GLENN**

 **GO TO TERMINUS**

 **MAGGIE SASHA BOB**

 _A message written in blood on the side of a semi-trailer. Michael stared at it for the longest time before bursting into sobs, collapsing to the ground and rocking himself back and forth. Maggie, Sasha, Bob-they were alive. Michael was certain of it. And if they'd made it out, why couldn't Beth have, too?_

 _And after he got back up, after he wiped away his tears, he felt something he hadn't been able to feel in the longest time._

 _ **Hope.**_


	14. Fourteen: Serpents

_**Chapter Fourteen: Serpents**_

 _"It was a close call,_

 _sitting in the back of the room,_

 _with a bowl you had owned,_

 _but they didn't know._

 _Close in on my eye,_

 _I feel safe at times,_

 _certain emblems tell me it's time…"_

* * *

I ran out of food this morning-a day after finding Maggie's message.

It was the last of the beef jerky, which I somehow managed to make last this long; I'm surprised at it myself. The shotgun is gone, too. out of ammo and abandoned at an old trailer park, but I still have bullets for the Colt and the revolver and I've gotten better at using my axe. I haven't even hurt myself with it yet.

My wounds have healed. I took my stitches out this morning, right when I ate the last of my jerky, and it wasn't nearly as bad as when Hershel took out the stitches from my wrist.

 _Hershel._

I choke down a memory. Been doing that a lot lately with all this time to myself. Reading books from Gerald's cabin helps to distract myself, and looking over maps and scavenging for supplies. The rest of the time is just spent wandering. Walking through the nothingness like a phantom, homeless and hungry and alone. But I push on. The idea of food is what helps to keep me going, of all things.

A twig snaps behind me and food suddenly isn't my priority; I twist around, hand gripped on my revolver, and an arrow is pointed right at my face.

"Well," the man says, his jet black hair oily and his dirty clothes stained and torn. He gives me a devilish grin and it almost sends shivers down my spine but I stand my ground. "You look like a pretty good pint-sized meal. Boys! We got ourselves a claimee."

From behind him, five other men appear; they're all in the same shape as the bowman, with their faces dirty and their clothes all torn and weathered. Each of them carry their own weapons and one of them, a red haired balding man with a big belly and brown, decaying teeth, smiles at me like I'm a meal. I hate it. I hate _this._ And for a moment I think about running, trying to escape, but I'd just get an arrow in my back.

"Wait," one of them says. I haven't been able to get a good look at his face, until… now.

Until now.

 _Oh._

 _Daryl_ steps through the men, slowly at first, and when he gets a good look at me I almost fall to my knees. But I don't, and Daryl pushes the bowman away with a grunt.

"I know'im," Daryl growls, standing in front of me and turning to face the men. "Y'ain't touchin' him."

Daryl's gripping his crossbow like he's ready for a fight, standing in front of me like a wall, and I'm too disoriented to even _do_ anything because Daryl is alive. He's _alive_ and right here.

The bowman looks pissed. Like he wants to shoot us both, even though Daryl looks have been traveling with them for some time. "Joe," he calls, turning back to look at one of the other men. He has silver hair and a denim jacket with roses on the shoulders, and walks forward with an aura of power and control around him. This must be Joe.

Joe eyes up Daryl, then me, and smiles charmingly. "Alright, Daryl, down boy. Ain't nobody gonna touch the kid." He looks back at the other men. "Right, boys?"

The bowman looks at Joe, incredulous, as if he's just told them to stop breathing; the fat man looks disappointed but doesn't say anything. The rest of the men give their own versions of acceptance-a nod, a shrug, a "You got it, boss." It doesn't make me feel any safer but Daryl is here and that helps.

"Right, _Len?_ " Joe repeats. The bowman, Len, stares at him for a short moment before he grudgingly holds his arms out.

"Yeah. Fine. Whatever."

Then Joe turns to us, that smile right back on his face. "Alright, then. What's your name, kid?"

I look up at Daryl; he's still watching Len like a hawk ready to attack, so I look back at Joe and swallow.

"Michael."

Joe nods. "Mind if I call you Mike?"

I do mind, but shake my head, because Joe doesn't look like the kind of man you say no to. My father once said you can always tell what someone is like based on the company they keep; I bet Joe is all charming smiles and saving you from mean men until you do something wrong. And then he _becomes_ the mean man.

"Okay, Mike. Looks like you and Daryl have some catching up to do, so…" He glances around, "we'll make camp here tonight. You two do all the talking shit, or whatever you're gonna do, and we'll be getting ready for the night."

And then Joe leaves. Well, he doesn't actually leave, but he and the other men walk off and begin setting up their camp. When they're a good distance away, Daryl finally turns to me-and I'm already hugging him like there's no tomorrow. His crossbow digs into my side but I don't care because Daryl is right in front of me. Right here. Alive. _Alive. Alivealivealivealive._ He tenses up under my grip at first, but then I feel one of his arms go around my back and I feel a lot better.

"How," I whisper into his vest. Then I pull away, look up at him and shake my head. "How are you-..."

"Left after everything went to shit," Daryl mutters, glancing over at the men. "Got out with Beth."

I blink.

"Is… is she-"

"She's alive," he says, staring at me with so much intensity in his eyes that I have to believe him. "Some car drove off with her."

There's this feeling in my face, that weird thing like you're about to cry, but Daryl takes my shoulder.

"We'll get her back. Jus'... we gotta figure out what to do about _this_."

"Who are these guys, Daryl?" I ask. I have to ask because I don't trust them and I doubt Daryl does, either. He waits a moment before responding.

"I'unno… they found me after I lost her. Figured goin' with them was…" He trails off but I know what he's gonna say. I know he felt it-that isolation creeping into your skin like winter chill.

"What about you?" He asks. I fumble with my jacket zipper. "Y'get out with anyone?"

"Went back to Admin looking for the kids. I… couldn't find them, so I just left and kept going. Been wandering around ever since." Daryl chews on his bottom lip but then I remember Maggie's message from yesterday. "Maggie's alive," I say, "and Sasha, and Bob. They got out together. Left messages to Glenn to go this place, Terminus."

Daryl raises an eyebrow. "Terminus?"

I shake my head. "Saw some maps, telling people to follow the tracks into the state. Maybe it's some kind of sanctuary?"

Daryl is thinking, and for a moment I'm hoping that he'll tell me of a plan for us to leave in the night and find this Terminus place; but he doesn't. That intensity that was in his eyes is gone, replaced by a dejected sort of hurt, and he drops his crossbow down to where it rests against a tree.

He spends the next half hour telling me about these men. Daryl points them out; Billy, the one with a beanie on his head; Harley, with salt and pepper hair; Tony, who has a folded bandanna around his head; Dan, the fat man; Len, the bowman, and Joe. He tells me to stay away from Len and Dan so I do. And before I know it, night has fallen. Daryl tells me to sleep, even though I don't want to. He reminds me that he'll stay up, keep the other men from taking my stuff or doing bad things to me when I'm asleep, so it's easier to fall asleep when he puts his arm around my shoulder and promises to not leave without me.

* * *

The next morning, early before the sun rises and any of the others wake up, Daryl and I leave to go hunt. Since I don't have a bow or any kind of silenced gun, I mostly trail along with Daryl as he tracks the woods for a sign of game.

"Why don't we just leave?" I ask him at one point, just after the blue hues of dawn have arrived. "We can go back to camp, get our things and just go."

Daryl doesn't respond so I continue.

"They're not safe, Daryl. Did you see the way Dan was looking at me yesterday? It was like… it was like I was some kind of _chew toy_ -"

" _I saw_ ," Daryl grunts, "and I told you, ain't nobody gonna touch you. Not when I'm around. So let's just hunt."

I want to protest, I really do. But I trust Daryl and I trust his decisions so I don't.

And then, later on into the morning, we spot a gray hare and he surprises me by handing over his crossbow.

 _You're sure?_ I mouth. He nods, inclines his head towards the hare.

 _Go for it._

So then I put the crossbow up to my shoulder, line up my shot. Daryl adjusts my grip, whispers instructions into my ear, and just as I pull the trigger something flies past my head. It's so fast I can feel it brush my hair. Not one, but two arrows-an arrow and a bolt, to be specific- hit the hare, and Daryl and I look back to see Len standing a few feet behind us.

"The hell you doin', man?" Daryl asks; he stands up and so do I.

"Catchin' me some breakfast," Len says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, and Daryl goes forward to the hare.

"Well that's his."

"My arrow's the one that hit first," Len argues, as if they're talking about some kind of toy, "cottontail belongs to me."

Daryl crouches down and yanks his bolt from the hare. "We been out here since before the sun came up."

"You see, the rules of the hunt don't mean _jack_ out here. That rabbit there? It's claimed," Daryl flings Len's arrow across the forest and Len looks at me, " _boy._ "

"Claimed," he continues, "whether you like it or not."

Daryl starts walking towards him.

"So I was you? I'd hand it over, _now,_ before you get to wishin' you never even got outta bed this mornin'."

"It ain't yours."

Len tilts his head, eyes up Daryl like he can somehow take him in a fight.

"Y'know. I bet this _bitch_ got you all messed up. Hm?"

Daryl continues, walking past Len like he's just another tree, and I follow because Len is just a bully and he's not worth it.

"Am I right?"

We keep going.

"Got you walking around here like a dead man who just lost himself a piece of tail."

Daryl stops. His free hand balls into a fist and when I realize he won't be following me back to camp, I turn around and grab him by the wrist.

"Must've been a good'un."

"Daryl, c'mon," I whisper. He ignores me.

"Tell me something," Len says, "was it one of the little'uns?"

Daryl unbuckles his sheath and I shake my head.

"Let's _go_ , Daryl-"

"'Cause they don't last too long out here…"

Daryl draws his knife, twists around like he's gonna slice Len into a million tiny pieces, and I wouldn't blame him; but then Joe is there, saying. "Easy, boys, easy," and stopping Daryl's arm from going past his midsection. Len chuckles as if this is the funniest thing in the world. "Let's just put our weapons down, see if we can't figure out what's really the problem here, huh?"

Daryl says nothing, so Joe goes to stand in between the two of them and I really wish we could just go back, get our shit and leave.

"You claim it?" Joe asks Len.

"Hell yeah."

Joe looks at Daryl as if to say 'sorry, no can do.' "Well, there you have it. Critter belongs to Len."

"So let's have it!" Len holds out his hand expectantly and Daryl just stands there, quiet and unmoving.

"What's that mean?" I ask the two of them, moving out from behind Daryl. "'claimed'?" Joe looks from me, to Daryl, then back to me.

"Looks like we owe you two an explanation."

"That would help, yeah."

Joe shifts his weight. "See, goin' it alone, that ain't an option nowadays. Still, it is survival of the fittest. That's a paradox right there."

Len looks like he just wants this to be over and so do I. But I listen to Joe and make sure he sees it.

"So I laid out some rules of the road to keep everything from going Darwin every couple of hours. Keep our merry band together and stress free. All you gotta do is _claim._ That's how you mark your territory, your prey, your bed at night. One word; _claimed._ "

"I ain't claimin' nothin'," Daryl grunts. Len frowns, exasperated and tired of this.

"We gonna teach 'em, right?" Joe looks back at him. "The _rules say we_ _ **gotta teach**_ 'em."

"Now it wouldn't be fair to punish either of you for violatin' a rule you never even knew existed."

Len runs a hand over his head and blows air out of his nose, pacing forward.

"Ain't no rules anymore," Daryl says.

"Oh there are, you know that. That's why I didn't kill you for the crossbow."

I don't remember this, but realize it must have happened when Daryl joined up with these men. Joe reaches down, grabs the hare by the ears and lifts it up; Daryl protests, but Joe says, "Easy there, partner," and places it against a tree. Then, he takes a hatchet from his belt and hacks the hare in half. Blood spews out all over the tree and Joe tosses the top half over at Len. Len stares at him for a moment then storms away.

"Claimed," Joe says, "that's all you gotta say." He looks over at me. "Hey-ass end is still an end."

* * *

Hours later, after the sun has sailed across the sky and is now in the west, we've left camp and are following the train tracks northeast; at least that's what my compass tells me. I've learned more about Joe and his men-how they enjoy killing the dead, and make jokes about women, and have little inside jokes about all the things they've done. Some of it is annoying, some of it makes me want to vomit. Earlier, when Billy described one of the women they'd come across, he told me I shoulda been there - "You would not _believe_ the honkers on that bitch." When I shrugged as a response, he looked at me weird and asked, "What, you some kind'a fag?" But I didn't say and went back to eating my granola bar.

Despite this we stick with them all throughout the day. On the bright side, Daryl and I have separated ourselves from the rest of the men and are following behind them. It was just us until Joe slowed down his pace and started walking beside Daryl. He lit up a cigarette, asked us if we wanted one-we said no. It's quiet for a few minutes until Joe speaks up.

"So what's the plan, you two?"

I blink.

"How so?" Daryl asks.

"You're with us now, but you ain't soon?"

Yes, Joe. That's exactly right.

"Yep."

"So what's the plan?"

Daryl shrugs. Readjusts his grip on the trash bag he's been carrying; it has the hare half in it. "Just ah, lookin' for the right place is all."

"Aw. We ain't good enough for you, huh?" Joe takes a drag from his cigarette.

"Some of you ain't exactly friendly."

Joe smiles, shakes his head. "You ain't so friendly yourself." He glances over at me. "Your kid, though-he's not too bad."

I don't know if I should be flattered or stay guarded.

"You know you need a group out here."

"Maybe we don't."

"No, you _do._ You should be with us."

A walker groans and stumbles into view.

"People don't gotta be friendly," Joe continues. "We don't have to be nice, we don't have to be _brother's in arms_."

Billy shoves the walker back; Dan catches it and Billy rams his tire iron into its cranium.

"You just gotta follow the rules. You claim-if you steal, you keel. I know that sounds a little funny, but nobody laughs when something goes missin'. And you don't lie." Joe holds his arms out for emphasis. "'Cause that's a slippery slope indeed."

"What happens if you break 'em?" Daryl asks.

"Oh, you catch a beatin'," Joe replies. His tone is nonchalant and it makes me think that Joe is just as bad as Len. "The severity of which depends upon the offense and the general attitude of the day. But that don't happen much, 'cause when men like us follow rules and cooperate a little bit… well. The world becomes ours."

Joe whistles, points at a building just left of the tracks.

"Right there," he calls, "that's our abode for the evenin'!"

"Hey," Daryl says. Joe turns. "There ain't no us."

 _Thank fucking god._

Joe takes a few steps forward and he looks _disappointed._ "You leaving right now?" God, he even sounds it too, but I don't care. Yes, Joe, it looks like we're leaving. But then Daryl says nothing, doesn't confirm nor deny our departure; and so Joe says, "No? Then it looks like there's an us."

 _No. There is not an us._

"You a cat person, Daryl?" Joe asks. "I am. Loved 'em since I was three years old. Vicious creatures." He takes another puff. "Anyway, I'll tell ya-and this is _true_ -ain't nothing sadder than an outdoor cat who thinks he's an indoor cat."

I think I hate Joe. I've never hated anyone before, never wished ill of anyone but myself. But I _hate_ him. How he's trying to talk to Daryl like he _knows_ who he is.

He doesn't know shit.

I don't say that. Instead I follow Daryl when he follows Joe, and wait as they go inside to scope out the building. Daryl makes me wait until he says its okay to go in, and when we do he shuts the door behind him. I ignore the look Len gives us.

Everyone spreads out through the building; it looks to be some kind of huge car garage. There's a fine coat of dust over everything, much like the rest of the world these days, so it seems to be completely abandoned.

"They ain't here," Tony says. His voice echoes across the room. "Nobody's been here for a while. Whoever was, they got all the gas."

"That don't matter," Joe says. "We're gettin' closer, I can feel it."

Billy walks over to the car Daryl has uncovered. "Claimed," he says, kicking Daryl's bag away. He looks at us expectantly, so Daryl takes his crossbow off the hood and we go to find another car. The two of us are about to go for a pale blue truck, but when Len sees us he tosses his sleeping back into the bed.

" _Claimed._ "

Asshole.

There's only one other vehicle left, a light green car, so we go over and make it ours. I sit leaned against the front of the car, read away at _Rose Madder_ ; Daryl lays on the ground and chews on a cigar roll, staring up at the ceiling. This is what we do for some time, other than go out when Daryl has to relieve himself ( he makes me come with him because he doesn't trust the other men around me by myself ). But then we go back to normal and for a while it's quiet.

"Christ," Len grumbles. I look up from my book and frown. "You've gotta be kidding me."

He storms over to us. Daryl sits up, takes the cigar roll out of his mouth. Len is too close to him for my comfort so I dog ear Rose and put her down beside me.

"Give it here."

"You _step back_."

"My half was in the bag," Len points back at the truck, "now it's gone. Now ain't _nobody_ around here interested in no half a damn cottontail, 'cept _you._ Ain't that right?"

"You're the only one still _thinkin'_ about that crap!"

I stand up. Something tells me to get ready to fight even though I don't want to.

"Empty your bag."

"I said step back!" Daryl swipes up his bag and backs up. Then Joe is there, _again,_ and he takes the bag from Daryl before anything can happen.

"Did you take his rabbit, Daryl?" He asks. "Just tell me the truth."

"I didn't take _nothin'._ "

"What do we got here…" Joe holds the bag upside down, dropping everything out; the bottom half of the rabbit, a flannel, more cigar rolls… and the top half of the rabbit.

"Well, look at that."

"You put that there, didn't you?" Daryl growls at Len and I walk forward, get closer, because I know Daryl isn't petty enough to steal a fucking rabbit head. "When I went out to take a piss?!"

" _You lied."_

Daryl shoves him. I yell out for him but he ignores me. "Didn't you!"

" _You_ lied, _you_ stole. I bet you had your little fag take it for you, didn't you?! We gonna teach these fools a lesson or what, Joe?"

I think Len is a man who's been allowed to thrive in this world; he craves violence and uses it to push him through the waters of the apocalypse.

"Whoa, whoa," Joe says. "Now Daryl says he didn't take your half of the rabbit." He looks over at me. "Did _you_ take it, Michael?"

And while I can't say I blame him, it just means I've already designated him as someone I'm willing to kill. Him and the rest of these men who have probably (most likely) done worse things than stab a scared teenager.

I shake my head. "No. I _didn't._ " The rest of the men have gathered around. It makes me anxious and I want to grab my revolver but I don't.

"Looks like we've got a little conundrum here. Either they're lying, which is an actionable offense, or…" Joe laughs. "You didn't plant it on him like some pussy, punk-ass, cheatin' coward cop, did you?" Len looks like he's about to explode. "'Cause while that wouldn't specifically be breaking the rules, it'd be disappointing."

"It would," Len says. But then he gets up real close to Joe and I think that's a mistake. "I _didn't._ "

"Good." Joe looks at us. "Well…" then turns and punches Len across the face. He cries out, falls to the ground, and Joe says, "Teach him a lesson, gents. He's a lying _sack of shit_. I'm sick of it." The first kick is delivered to his face and it snaps back with an ugly crunch. "Teach him all the way!"

Joe spins around, smiles at Daryl and me like this is just another regular day. "I saw him do it."

"Then why didn't you try to stop him?" Daryl asks. Joe shrugs and Len grunts because everyone is kicking at him now, beating him, and he gets thrown around like a sack of flour.

"He wanted to play that out. I let him. You two _told the truth_. He lied. Both of you understand the rules, he doesn't."

The blows continue but I don't care. I'm not remorseful for Len and thinking this does not scare me. I have found Daryl; this is a start to getting my friends back, I think. And while I've never thought about killing someone to get them back, I realize that I will. I'll kill them all if I have to.

Being scared isn't how I survive anymore.

Joe picks up the top of the rabbit, hands it over to me. "Looks like you get the head after all, kid."

* * *

" _Serpents in my mind,_

 _looking for your crimes,_

 _everything changes,_

 _I don't want mine to this time…"_


	15. Fifteen: Claws

_**Chapter Fifteen: Claws**_

 _"You've got your claws in me, don't you?_

 _Don't you…?"_

* * *

I wake up twice in the night.

The first is to take a leak; I go out and nearly trip over Len's corpse, then find my way to a tree and relieve myself. The second time, I wake because of a dream.

It was my mother. She was standing above me, in the sky, and her hair was fading into the night; but then I realized that her hair _was_ the night, inky black and shiny and unending, and that all the stars had come together to form her body. She was up there, and I was down here, and then I woke up crying. Not loud enough to wake anybody up, thank god, but it was enough to keep me awake until the sun rose.

Joe wakes up first. I know this because he's on his feet before everyone else, eating at trail mix, and when he's finished he comes over and looks down.

"Walk with me," he says. I glance at Daryl, then stand up and follow Joe out the door; I try my best to ignore the splashes of blood on the floor and the concrete walkway outside. We don't go far before he starts talking.

"Y'know," Joe says at first, "I can't tell if you and Daryl are blood or strangers brought together by chance."

I blink at him.

"He found me, a couple months back."

"I figured that. You're Native American, right?"

I look up at him then. "Ah… a little bit of everything, I guess. Mostly Hawaiian." Joe laughs.

"Sorry. Never met anybody 'mostly Hawaiian', 'specially in these parts."

I don't know what to say so I shrug.

"You alone when he found you?" He asks after a moment.

I nod.

Joe makes a "mmm" sound. "I was too, for a bit. Not long. Maybe a couple of months, right at the beginning of the change. See, I didn't have any plans-living the dream as an ex-con, you don't really have friends, and your family's spread thin and far. So I just wandered around, killing the dead. Then I killed the living. You ever kill someone, Mike?"

"Yes." I realize that Joe is the first person I've ever told and a part of me already resents that. But who better to tell about your first kill than the man who's probably taken more lives than the years he's lived?

"Well, I've heard from a lot of people that the first kill is taxing. Makes you feel sick, like you've committed some unspeakable, violent action. Me? Nah… I felt _nothin_ '. I thought I was some kinda monster at first, not feeling bad for killing someone, but I remembered that in this world? There's nobody to look at you like that, 'cause we've _all_ done bad things."

Joe grins and I kick a rock with my shoe. "It's better when you find people to do those unspeakable things with. See, the world's changed, but I think it's changed for the better. This is an _opportunity._ You make the world yours, Mike, and you don't feel bad about it. And you do _anything_ to keep going, because there's no such thing as good or bad anymore."

I think of killing Joe right now. I could do it if I'm fast; all he brought was his hatchet but I brought my revolver. We're far enough from the others that the gunshot wouldn't wake them up.

Joe is a monster. Monsters should be put down.

I don't kill him, because even though it might help whatever's left of this forsaken world, it won't help me. I'll just end up becoming another monster, like Joe, like Len and Billy and everyone else that's been in Joe's group. So I keep my revolver holstered as we go back to the garage, and I go back to the ground where Daryl is sleeping, and I wait there until he wakes up.

"Morning," I whisper. He grunts a response and after a minute he gets up, stretches.

"Where are we going?" I ask him then. I stand and lean against the front of the car. "Are we staying with them forever?" Daryl looks over at me. He readjusts his coat and I don't know if he'll respond until he does.

"We're survivin'," is all he says. And then we leave. On the way out, Daryl stops and looks at Len's body. He kneels down, grabs a sheet like he's gonna cover him up, then shakes his head and drops it. Then we keep going.

* * *

Sometime later, we walk across a clearing. Like usual, I'm attached to Daryl's side and Joe is walking with us, because for some reason he likes us. I guess. He drinks from a flask, holds it out to Daryl. "White Lightning. Easiest thing to make with the least amount of supplies." Daryl takes the flask. "I'd start slow if I was you, your stomach's probably emptier than you think…"

Daryl gulps it down like its nothing. Joe smiles and takes the flask back when Daryl offers it. "I ain't been lit at dawn since… before everything fell apart."

" _Fell apart_ ," Joe repeats. "Never looked at it like that. Seems to me like things are finally starting to fall together."

Yeah, tell that to the billions of people that are dead or walking around _and_ dead.

"At least for guys like us. Living like this, surviving. We've been living like this from the start, right?"

Then we walk up to train tracks where Harley is standing, staring at a sign posted above the ditch. "Gettin' closer," he murmurs. When we get up there, I walk around and look at it, and my heart nearly falls through my chest. It's another Terminus sign. Daryl must realize what it is, too, but plays dumb because Joe is right here.

"You ever seen one of these before?" He asks.

"Oh, yeah. I'll tell you what it is, it's a _lie._ Ain't no sanctuary for all. Ain't gonna welcome guys like you and me with open arms."

Everyone keeps walking.

"So is that where we're headed?" Daryl asks. I almost blanch when he says 'we're.'

"Oh, so now you're asking?"

"That's right."

"We were in a house minding our own business, and this walking piece of fecal matter was hidin' in the home. Strangled our colleague Lou and left him to turn. Lou came at all of us… He lit out, we tracked him to these tracks, one of those signs, and thus we've got a destination in mind."

"You see this guy's face?"

"Only Tony. That's enough for a reckoning."

Tony stops, looks over the edge of the tracks at something on the ground, and all of a sudden Daryl says, "Claimed!" and bends down to grab it. It's just a chunk of dirt with some fruit, not much, but I hate that he's finally said it. _Claimed._

* * *

Later on in the day, just an hour after sunset, we make camp in a thicket of trees. Tonight is another night of sleeping in the woods, and today is another day of failed attempts to make Daryl leave Joe's group. He's given me excuse after excuse and I want to leave them, _so bad_ , but he won't listen.

But then he takes me aside. Makes the excuse that he's gotta take a piss and needs someone to watch his back; and then he tells me that we're _leaving._ In the night, when they're all asleep as to not raise any questions, we'll get our things and go. Daryl says that he's seen enough of these men to know they're the wrong crowd. So we go back to camp and I feel as though a weight has been lifted off of my chest.

As we sit, wait for Billy and Tony to get back from a night scavenge, Joe decides to talk. Again.

"So, Michael. You got yourself a girl?"

I had (have) a girl.

Her name was (is) Beth.

She's prettier than the sky and you'll never know what it's like to care about her as much as I do.

"Nope," I say. Shake my head as convincingly as I can. Joe seems disappointed.

"Shame," he says. "Everyone needs a good fuck every now and then."

Oh, how I wish you knew that she was (is) more than you'll ever be.

"Dan has a soft spot for the young'uns."

Dan giggles, a nasty little hack and cough that sends shivers down my spine. I want to throw up.

"See, those are one of the few things we need in life to keep going; a nice pair of tits, revenge, and rules. They're the Holy Trinity of what happens when everything _falls together._ "

"Joe, Joe!" Tony calls, running through the trees into camp like his life depends on it. Billy follows him and their breathing is hard and heavy.

"Now what the hell's got you two-"

"It's _him_ ," Tony interrupts, taking in a deep breath of fresh air. "The one from the house, the one that killed Lou!"

Joe's entire body goes rigid. It's quite a sight to behold but it makes me want to look away nonetheless.

"You're sure?"

"Yes I'm fuckin-"

" _Where._ "

"Just a few minutes that way-" Tony points from the way he came, "sittin' right in the middle of the road, with some black lady and a kid in a car."

This is when I look over at Daryl. His face is steel but I can see the panic in his dark eyes, swimming around with the firelight.

"Well did they fuckin' see you?"

"No, we came here as soon as we saw 'em-"

"Then let's go!" Joe grins; it is not one of charm this time. The devil is in his smile.

He looks over at us as Dan and Harley gather their weapons.

"You boys wanna come watch a _reckoning_?"

Daryl steps forward. "I'll go. Michael's gon' stay here."

Joe's smile drops a bit but it doesn't fade away. He's too ecstatic for that. "You sure? It's gonna be one hell of a show."

Daryl looks back at me and for a moment I forget how to breathe. But then I shake my head. "Got… got some reading to catch up on."

Joe shrugs and then he holsters his pistol. "Suit yourself, kid."

And then they're off.

Before he goes, Daryl stomps over to me and takes me by the shoulder. "Don't you dare follow us, you hear me?"

"What if it's _them_?" I ask. "What if it's Ri-"

"I said _don't_. If it's them, I'll _handle_ it. Now sit the hell down and read your book. I'll be back."

Then he leaves and I don't know what to do with myself. I'm alone in camp and the only thing I can focus on is the firelight, because I'm _alone_ and Daryl is _out there_. My friends could be out there, alive and at the mercy of a bunch of murderous rapists. Our plan might fall through because what if he doesn't come back? What if he doesn't come back and we can't leave in the middle of the night like we're supposed to?

But I can't survive through fear anymore. I _can't._ Daryl will need help. My friends will need help. So that's why I say _fuck that_ to Daryl's orders and I make my way to the main road. When I get out of the treeline and onto blacktop, I can see a car just a few yards to my left. In the light of the full moon I can see Billy and Harley aiming their guns at something just beyond the car, so I run to them. And when I get there, stop just in front of Billy, I almost scream because right there is Rick.

Joe has a gun to his temple, and beside him, Tony has his revolver in Michonne's face.

Daryl looks over at me and I can see the disappointment in his face, the frustration, but I don't care. Joe sees me and his face lights up.

"Oh _hi_ , Mike! Glad of you to finally join us."

Something hits glass. I look over and see Dan press his knife into the passenger side window; through the grimy, dusted up windshield, I watch Carl inch away from him, then look over to make eye contact with me.

 _'Dan has a soft spot for the young'uns.'_

"Daryl here was just about to tell me why in the _fuck_ I should let these people go," Joe explains. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Rick and Michonne are both looking at me, their expressions plastered with shock, and I hate it because they're unarmed and outgunned and there's no way in hell we're getting out of this easily.

I think I'll have to kill again.

Joe looks at me expectantly. I swallow and it hurts going down my throat.

"They're survivors," I say. "Just- just like us. They did anything to survive, like you said we needed to do to keep going. I'm… I'm sorry about your friend. But they're _good_ , Joe, they're good people, so just let them go…"

"Look," Daryl says, "you want blood. I get it." He drops his crossbow and I want to yell at him for it, especially when he holds his arms out. "Take it from me, man. Come on."

Joe stares at us, incredulous, as if the thought of us even _defending_ our friends was the most heinous crime we could commit. To him, I suppose, they're just a couple of strangers we're taking pity on. "Lou was our friend. This man killed him. _You_ _both_ say he's good people… see, now that right there i-i-is a _lie._ "

Oh, god.

" _It's a lie!_ "

Harley slams his rifle stock into Daryl's gut.

"No!" Rick and I yell, and I'm about to reach for my revolver but something hits me across the head and I'm collapsing into the front of the jeep. I look over, fumbling to stand up, and Billy is there with wide eyes and a wicked expression on his face.

"Wait-" I try to say, but then he's hitting me across the face and shoving me into the jeep. His fist cracks into my cheek and i feel my skin split.

"Teach them, fellas," Joe orders, "Teach 'em all the way!"

So much happens and it happens so fast I don't know how to take it in. Carl is yanked from the jeep by Dan, Rick is begging for their lives, Billy is beating me like he beat Len and Harley is doing the same to Daryl. I'm on the ground and he's kicking at my belly at my arms at my ribs, it hurts, everything hurts so bad. I try to drag myself away, even make it to the back of the jeep, but Billy is having fun with me. "This is what you get, fag," he snarls after a hard kick, reaching down and picking me up off the ground. I try reaching for my revolver but he grabs it first, tosses it away. "You break the rules and you get the _lesson_. Your cool axe? It's mine, now. I _claim_ it."

And then he keeps going. Something red is in my eye, I tasted blood, and then Billy drags me to the edge of the road. He takes me by the shoulders and lifts me onto my feet. Then, two gunshots go off, there's screaming, there's only a few pauses where I can actually _breathe_ , but then everything stops.

Rick has torn a chunk from Joe's throat and blood is squirting out of his jugular. Everyone stops and stares, but I don't because Billy has forgotten all about me.

That cool axe? I take it from my belt, ease it out as quick as I can, and then I put it in Billy's throat.

Another gunshot goes off, and then another, but I barely notice it because I'm watching Billy. The end of the blade sticks out of his neck; his eyes are wide and it's as if he wasn't _expecting_ me to fight for my life. I rip it away; he grabs at his neck, blood slips through his fingers and I _watch_ , and then I lean forward.

" _Claimed._ "

Billy falls to his knees. I back up, plant a boot on his chest and kick, and when he's fallen to the blacktop I get over him, down on my knees and over his midsection. I think I'm screaming when I start hacking away at his face. I have killed again and it's just like Joe said; there's no remorse. It's just burning rage with each thrust, aiming for his head, his chest, again and again and again, until someone grabs me and pulls me away.

"Let go!" I scream, thrashing and kicking about, "let me the fuck go!"

"Stop it, Michael," Daryl says into my ear, "it's me."

I look over, make sure it really is him because sometimes my ears play tricks on me. But it is, it really is Daryl, and when I let the axe clatter to the ground he's there to stop me from falling over. I twist my head and watch with nothing but a numb feeling in my belly as Rick spills Dan's guts on the other side of the road.

* * *

The night goes by in a blur.

Daryl cleans Billy's blood from my face and neck. We go back to the old camp, grab everyone's bags and bring them back. Rick puts down the claimers as they reanimate and we drag their bodies off to slump over each other behind the treeline. Michonne and Carl stay in the jeep and we cover the windows with shirts from the claimer's bags. When we go through them for anything useful I find a baggie of hair in Dan's bag - different locks of different colors, some long and some short - and I cry and cry until Daryl holds me still.

At dawn, Daryl and I go for a patrol. I've been in and out of sleep all night, but each time I closed my eyes I saw Billy's caved in face.

"I'm sorry," Daryl says all of a sudden. We've just passed a 45 MPH road sign. "I… should'a got us outta there sooner. Should'a just left that morning after I found you."

"You didn't know," I say back, because Daryl is feeling guilty for this and he shouldn't. He doesn't need to. "You were just trying to survive. To keep us alive."

"They were bad people… "

I stop and I make Daryl stop with me. He has this look in his eyes like a sad dog and I hate it.

"Beth told me once that you shouldn't feel guilty for being alive. _Don't._ Staying with them kept us alive for a while and now, we're back, with Rick and Carl and Michonne. We have them and that's all that matters."

And then I hug him, for the second time in my life, because even though I think Daryl is a man who doesn't do well with hugs, I also think he needs more of them in his life, too.

"I'm sorry you had t'do that," he says after I pull away. "Billy… I know it's hard, killin' someone-"

"It wasn't my first time," I admit. Daryl looks at me and even though that sad look in his eyes is gone, I can't tell what he's thinking. I guess that worries me because I care about what Daryl thinks of me more than I realize. "Back at the Prison, when the Governor attacked… this kid followed me into Admin. He was hurt, and scared, and he just… I tried getting him to stop, I really did, Daryl, you have to believe me-"

"I do. I do."

I have to wipe at my face and it's so stupid because I've been crying so much lately. I should be all cried out by now, or at least dehydrated. Maybe I'll cry so much it makes me shrivel up like a dried out pumpkin. "Billy wasn't my first. And… I don't think he'll be my last.

Daryl watches me for the longest time. Then, he readjusts his grip on his crossbow and says, "C'mon. Let's head back. You should try 'n get some rest."

* * *

I don't know how, or when, but somehow I do get rest. I think I fall asleep in the passenger side of the jeep with Carl's feet in my lap-I was worried that he'd be afraid of me, after seeing what I did last night and how I must have looked with all that blood on my face, but when I got in he just looked at me and put his feet on my thighs. And that eased my worries a bit, so I let myself rest against the window and managed to keep myself from seeing Billy.

Michonne woke me up sometime later. I don't know how long, only that the sun was in the afternoon sky and that I'd probably slept half the day away. She told me that we were leaving, so I got my bags and we left the jeep behind. As I got ready, Rick came over and put his hand on my shoulder, and I think he was expecting me to be scared of him, too, but I wasn't. I'm not. Because like Joe said, in this world there's nobody to look at you like that.

Rick and Michonne walk side by side and Daryl and I do, too. When we started off, Carl was in between, but eventually slowed in his pace to trail behind us. I keep looking back, making sure he's still there, until Daryl nudges me and he gives me that look that tells me I should stop. So I do.

Later on in the day, we come across another Terminus sign. This one has fallen down and there's a thick layer of dirt and leaves over it. Rick swipes some away with his boot.

"We're gettin' close," Daryl says. "Be there 'fore sundown."

Rick nods, and then he replies with, "Now we head through the woods. We don't know who they are."

I readjust Dan's AK-47 in my grip. It's stockless and has a small magazine and there's tally marks on the grip, and even though that makes me feel weird, I don't care. A gun is a gun.

A short trek through the woods later, shorter than I thought it would be, is a chain link fence. Daryl goes first, then Rick, then Carl then me and then Michonne. Vines have overtaken the fence but through the gaps we can see a bunch of industrial buildings, and on one of them there are big black letters on shutter windows that spell out **S**.

"We all spread out," Rick instructs, "watch for a while, see what we see… and get ready. We all stay close."

We all begin to go our separate ways. "Wanna stick with me?" Rick asks Carl, but he glances at his father before shaking his head.

"It's alright," he says, then follows Michonne off to the left. Rick watches as they go, but says nothing, and Daryl and I scope out the right. All we can see is more industrial buildings, other rows of fences, train tracks leading into certain buildings. It seems to be some kind of large train station slash town-but there isn't a soul in sight. After a few minutes Daryl and I return to see that Rick has dug a hole and dropped a duffel bag of weapons in it; there's Len's bow, a shotgun, handguns, a few rifles. I hesitate, watch as Rick replaces his Python with Joe's pistol, then drop my hunting satchel, my ice axe, and Dan's- _my_ rifle-into it. Replace it all with Tony's knife at my hip and the revolver on my thigh. Rick and I look at each other.

"Just in case," he tells me, before zipping up the bag and covering it with dirt.

We climb over the fence. Why there isn't barbed wire I have no clue, because it would just allow people worse than us to do exactly what we're doing. Rick drops down, then Michonne, Carl, I'm next and then it's Daryl. The five of us slink through Terminus like ghosts; we have our weapons drawn and we're at a doorway quickly. Rick opens it and we go in; there's a woman speaking.

"-follow the tracks to where the lines all intersect. There are maps at the crossings to help guide you with your journey. Sanctuary for all, community for all. Those who arrive, survive."

* * *

 _"You've got your claws, don't you…?"_


	16. Sixteen: Dangerous

_**Chapter Sixteen: Dangerous**_

 _"Are you dangerous?_

 _With your measure of proof?_

 _Thoughts are slivers of gold,_

 _absconded with the truth._

 _How does it feel,_

 _to be your own deciever?_

 _Signals raised,_

 _then lost to the aether…"_

* * *

This warehouse looks to be a mass production of sorts; maps, signs like the ones we saw on the tracks. For a short moment we watch them, bustling about like workers in an office building just… going about their daily lives. But then Rick walks up, because none of them even _notice_ us, and says, "Hello."

Some look up. The woman speaking into the radio takes off her headphones. "Hello," Rick repeats, louder this time. He has announced our arrival and we all stand in a line, wait for someone to speak up.

"Well," one man says, "I bet _Albert_ is on perimeter watch…" he tosses a marker to the side, walks around a table to face us. He's tall and handsome, with light brown hair and scruff, and young, too. If I had to guess I would say mid-twenties.

"You here to rob us?" He asks.

Rick waits. "No." He takes a few steps forward, even holsters his gun. _A sign of peace._ "We wanted to see you before you saw us."

The young man smiles. "Makes sense." He walks forward, too, holding out his arms and walking all awkwardly. "Usually we do this where the tracks meet…" he clears his throat. "Welcome _to Terminus._ I'm Gareth." Gareth looks over us all. "Looks like you've been on the road for a good bit."

"We have. Rick. That's Carl, Daryl, Michael, Michonne," he introduces us. Gareth waves. None of us speak.

"You're nervous, we get it! We were all the same way."

Charming smile. _Just like Joe._

"We came here for sanctuary. That what you're here for?"

"Yes," Rick answers, but there's something in his voice that tells me otherwise. Like it's a lie he just wants them to believe.

"Good. You've found it. Hey, Alex?" A man from behind one of the tables walks up. He's younger than Gareth and has curly, dark hair. "This isn't as pretty as up front. We've got nothing to hide, but the welcome wagon is a _whole_ lot nicer."

We all have things to hide, Gareth. Don't be a fool.

"Alex will take you, ask you a few questions." Alex waves. "Ah, but first… we need to see everyone's weapons. If you could just lay them down in front of you."

We all exchange glances. I look to Daryl for an answer but he's looking to Rick, and after a short and brief moment, he nods to us. "Alright."

"I'm sure you understand."

"Yeah… I do."

I set my revolver on the ground, the knife. Don't even touch my boot where my switchblade is, because that's _my_ backup. My little secret that nobody is supposed to know about.

Alex begins to pat us down. Alex gets to me and gives me a friendly smile, and I try not to look mean, but I think the bruised face and cut up forehead shoots that chance down. He doesn't find the switchblade and I would let out a sigh of relief, except I can't do that.

"I'd hate to see the other guy," he says when he pats Daryl down.

"You would," Rick responds.

"They deserve it?" He asks Carl.

" _Yes_."

Nobody talks after that. Not until it's done at least, and Gareth speaks up. I think he's the leader.

"Just so you know, we aren't those kind of people. But we aren't stupid, either. And _you_ shouldn't be stupid enough to try anything stupid, either." He says this like it's a joke, but so matter of factly, and Jesus I don't trust this guy one bit. I don't care if he's handsome or tall or has a charming smile.

"As long as everyone's clear on that, we shouldn't have any problems. Just solutions."

Rick nods.

"Okay."

Alex hands us our weapons back off the ground. Daryl picks up his crossbow before Alex can touch it, but I try to at least be nice and let him give me mine. It's stupid but whatever.

"Follow me," he says. And we do.

Through the warehouse, out into a courtyard. There's chalk drawings on the wall and the sun shines down but I don't see any children playing in it.

"So how long's this place been here?" Daryl asks. Alex glances back at him.

"Since almost the start. When all the camps got overrun, people started finding this place."

We pass a garden. There are fresh tomatoes and grapes and even a watermelon growing in a dirt patch.

"I think it was instinct, y'know? Follow a path. Some folks headed to the coast, others out west, or up north, but… they all wound up here."

There's more gardens, a grill with fresh meat. An older woman with red hair is cooking the food. "Hi," she greets. "Heard you came in the back door. Smart. You'll fit right in here."

We say nothing, so Alex says, "Hey, Mary, would you fix each of these folks a plate for me?"

My eyes wander. The others continue talking-Michonne asks Alex why they let people in and he says it's because it makes them stronger.

Someone is wearing a poncho and I think I recognize it.

It's gray and red and looks all scratching and I realize it looks _just like Daryl's_. I'm about to say his name, point it out, but then Rick is holding Alex with a gun to his head and a pocket watch in the other. We all raise our weapons and everyone else in the courtyard does the same; I set my sights on a large man in riot armor, remember seeing Glenn wear some _just like it_ during the Big Spot run.

What the hell is this place?

Rick asks Alex where he got the watch; Alex tells him to put the gun down and mentions a sniper, and I look up to see a man aiming down right at us through a rifle. Rick repeats his question, Alex tells the sniper to put his gun down and he does. Everything is going by so tense and so fast.

"I got it off a dead one, figured he didn't need it anymore."

"What about the riot gear, the poncho?"

"Got the riot gear off a dead cop," Gareth says, and he's there suddenly standing right behind us. Rick turns to face him with Alex still in his grip. "Found the poncho on a clothesline."

 _Fucking liar._

"Gareth, we can wait-"

"Shut up, Alex."

" _You_ talk to _me_ ," Rick orders.

"What's there left to say?" Gareth asks. He holds his hands together and looks so damn smug because we're surrounded. He knows he can win. "You don't trust us anymore."

"Gareth-"

" _Shut. Up._ "

"Gareth, please-"

"It's okay."

Why is he so calm about this? Why is he so fucking relaxed-

"It's okay. Rick, what do you want?"

"Where are our people?"

"You didn't answer the question."

Rick yells, then tosses Alex to the side, and then gunfire erupts and we're running for our lives. Bullets stop us from going in one direction, then another, until we're herded into a warehouse. We try going out a shutter door but it's closed before we can even get to it, then a barred door but it's locked, and then another one with a white letter **A** painted beside it. We're out in another courtyard, this one with more destruction like fire scorched walls and busted up cars and broken crates. More gunfire sends us into another direction; I think I see bones and organs behind a fence but we go by so fast I can't tell. As we run past shipping containers I can hear a man, then a woman yell out for help; Daryl says, "What the hell?!" But we keep going.

We come to a door and go through it. Inside. The room is dim, lit by dozens upon dozens and maybe even hundreds of candles. There are shelves of them and names, words written in chalk on the floor.

"The hell is this place?" Daryl asks.

"Some… some kind of _shrine_?" I offer. It looks to be just that; I can see some pictures and little mementos on a shelf.

"These people… I don't think they're trying to kill us," Michonne says. This entire place is so unsettling, terrifying, I think it's the worst place I've been in since the world ended.

"No," Rick replies, "They were aiming at our feet."

On the far wall, in big, black, bold letters, it reads

 **NEVER AGAIN. NEVER TRUST. WE FIRST, ALWAYS.**

"There!" Rick points to a door that's cracked open, but then someone shuts it from the other side. I hear it lock and we turn away.

Daryl points to another door and we run through it-I don't miss another white **A** painted beside it. As soon as we're out in the sunlight bullets hit the ground beneath us, curving us towards a fence, but then we stop because there are armed men and women aiming right at us from the other side. I do a 360° turn; there's some on the rooftops, others down the other side of the railway. Beside us is a brick red train car. We're cornered, surrounded, and when I look at Daryl for some semblance of direction I can tell he's thinking the same thing.

"Drop your weapons!" Gareth orders from across the way; he stands on the roof of one of the buildings. "Now!" When we don't, he repeats himself; louder this time.

We drop our weapons.

My revolver clatters to the ground and so does the knife. I leave my switchblade in my boot because they didn't notice it earlier and I'm sure as hell not giving it up now.

"Ringleader!" Gareth says. "Go to your left. The train car, go." Rick glances at it but doesn't take a step. "You do what we say, the boy goes with you. Do anything else, he dies, and you end up in there anyway."

Rick waits. He looks at Carl. Nods, then does as he's told.

"Now the archer!"

Daryl doesn't break eye contact with Gareth until he walks away.

"Now, the _samurai._ "

Michonne shudders but follows Daryl.

Gareth looks at me and I hate it. I hate him. I want to shoot him in the face and run off and get us out of here, but my gun is on the ground and that would be stupid. I'd never even do it anyways.

"Go on, short stack."

 _Fuck you._

I go. Look at Carl, wish I didn't have to leave him there standing on his own, but he nods and I think he's trying to tell me it's okay. I know it isn't but keep going anyway. Notice the white **A** on the train car and it all clicks; they made us come this way. Drove us here with gunfire and charming smiles. They almost fooled us but we're smart.

"Stand up at the door," Gareth yells, "Ringleader, archer, samurai, short stack-in that order!"

"My son!" Rick yells back.

Silence. Quiet. I almost think someone is gonna shoot Carl dead, right then and there, but Gareth says, "Go, kid," and Carl is walking right over here. But he isn't even halfway here before Gareth says, "Ringleader! Open the door and go in."

"I'll go in with him!"

"Don't make us kill him now!"

I think Rick is shaking with rage. He walks up the steps, slowly, then slides open the door. It shrieks against the rest of the metal and I hate it, hate that sound, and Rick goes into the darkness. We follow in the order that we were told, and I hold my breath until Carl finally shows up in the doorway and comes up the steps. Rick takes him by the shoulder and I can finally breathe, back up, feel the leather of Daryl's jacket. We hunker in the corner of the train car and someone slides the door shut again.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Some light shines in through slits in the roof, or through the doorway, but it isn't enough to see more than five feet in front of me.

Something thuds on the other side of the train car. There's footsteps, someone walking forward; and Glenn comes into view. "Rick?" Then there's Maggie, Bob, Sasha… all of them alive.

"You're here," Rick breathes. Then four strangers step out of the dark-two men, two women. A large red head with a handlebar moustache who looks like he could tear me in half; a short man on the plus size who has a mullet; a hispanic girl, around Maggie's age, who wears an army cap and big hoop earrings. And then, a short, curvy girl, who looks at us meekly. Like she's weary, afraid. I wouldn't blame her.

"They're friends," Maggie explains when Rick narrows his eyes at them. Even here I can see his expression soften. "They helped save us."

"Yeah," Daryl says. "Now they're friends of ours."

"For however long that'll be," the big man rumbles. God, it's like he's a giant.

"No," Rick whispers then, loud enough for us all to hear. He watches them for a moment, then goes to look out the door. "They're gonna feel pretty stupid when they find out." Light hits his face through the slit.

"Find out what?" Big man asks. Rick looks over at him.

"They're fucking with the wrong people."

* * *

 _"We're rest assured,_

 _the dead are true believers,_

 _rest assured,_

 _we are all believers._

 _Are you dangerous?_

 _Found your way to my bed._

 _Spend fewer nights with the living_

 _than I do with the dead…"_

* * *

 **SO SO SO sorry for taking this long to update. everything has been so wild for the past few days, including school and finding jobs and social gatherings that make me so tired i sleep for thirteen+ hours. rest assured i won't be this late for an update until all the chapters have been uploaded to complete the story! thanks again to everyone for your reviews and favorites/follows :)**


	17. Seventeen: Blood On My Name

_**Chapter Seventeen: Blood On My Name**_

 _"There's a reckonin' a comin',_

 _and it burns beyond the grave,_

 _lead inside my belly,_

 _'cause my soul has lost its way._

 _Oh Lazarus, how did you debts get paid?_

 _Oh, Lazarus_

 _were you so afraid…?"_

* * *

Creating a makeshift weapon is hard when you're locked up in a train car. But when you've got thirteen tired, hot, beat up, _angry_ motherfuckers?

It seems like the easiest thing in the whole wide world.

Some of us use belt buckles. Others make shivs, cut from wooden beams using my switchblade and jacket zippers. Rosita-the hispanic girl-straightens out her looped earrings and ties them between her knuckles. Abraham is the redhead, Eugene is the mullet man, and Tara is the short meek girl. She stays away from us in her own corner, silent.

My jacket sleeves are gone. Michonne used them to tie shivs to both ends of her sword sheath. Rick has my zipper now, sawing away at a wooden piece.

Eugene tells us that, supposedly, he has the cure to fix everything.

The outbreak.

The walkers.

The reanimation.

Everything.

He is Abraham and Rosita's mission, according to the two of them; and while I find it odd and far fetched, I have no reason to not believe them. Because honestly, who the fuck would make something like that up?

Michonne and Sasha talk about Tyreese, whether or not Michonne saw him before we got here. When Michonne denies it, Sasha just says, "Good."

Daryl and I tell Maggie about Beth. Daryl says she's alive, explains that the black car with the white cross took her. Maggie nods and there's this look in her eyes like she doesn't believe us. She takes my hand, squeezes it, and apologizes for not making me come with her when the Prison was attacked. I tell her to not be sorry, that I made it out anyways and that I'm as okay as I can be in our current situation. And I'm tired of people telling me they're sorry, but I don't say that part.

Glenn asks me about our wounds. The scrape on my forehead, Daryl's black eye, that sore feeling in my chest where there's five different bruises; I counted.

"Bad things happened," I say. "We… we can talk about them when we get out of here."

So we continue to get ready. For what? Some kind of fight. When? We don't know. Glenn and the others have been here for two days, one night. It's only a matter of waiting.

Until it's not.

There's chatter outside-arguing I think-and then Daryl, who's standing guard with Abraham, says, "Alright, got four of them pricks comin' our way…"

Rick yanks the zipper from the wood and we all get into positions. I get in between Maggie and Bob, aim my switchblade towards the door and bend my knees. After last night, after getting herded around like cattle earlier this morning, I'm ready for a fight.

"You know what to do," Rick says. "Go for their eyes first, then their throats."

Like I went for Billy's throat.

"Put your backs to the walls on either side of the car, _now_!" A voice orders. None of us comply. We wait, and wait, until I hear footsteps up on the roof. I look up, watch as a hatch is opened-and then something metal and shiny is dropped down in the middle of the car.

"Move!" Abraham bellows. Someone tackles me to the ground and then there's an explosion, a flash of light, and smoke instantly fills the train car. Somehow in the middle of all this I lose my switchblade. I don't even have time to stop myself from breathing in the smoke, and as soon as I do my chest is on fire. My lungs, my nose, my eyes; it all burns and I think I'm coughing up my insides. A door opens and through the smoke light shines into the car; whoever tackled me is yanked away with a grunt, and then something grabs my arm and drags me through the doorway.

I fall backwards, landing so hard whatever toxic air was in me is knocked out of my lungs. Someone twists me around, shoves my face into the concrete; my hands are zip tied and through blurry vision I see a man kick Rick in the face.

"No!" I cry out, and it's useless, I know it is, because a gag is tied around my throat and it takes everything in me not to throw up. I'm lifted off the ground, dragged away from the car and into a large room. My eyes clear up but my lungs still burn. My throat feels coarse and raw. Across the room something pale and red is being sawed up on a table; I'm shoved onto a large metal tub, lined up with other men. I'm in between Bob and Rick, and then there's Daryl and Glenn, and then five other men I've never seen before.

I look over at the table, just past Bob, straining my eyes to see whatever the hell is on that table… and I realize, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that it's a _body_ they're cutting up.

Wait.

 _Wait._

Oh, God.

 _They're going to eat us._

 _They're_ _ **going to fucking EAT US-**_

Two men in plastic aprons are in here with us. One is sharpening knives, the other has a metal baseball bat. They walk over to the opposite end of the tub, where a man with short platinum blonde hair is leaned against it like the rest of us. I watch, just trying not to vomit, as he's knocked out with the baseball bat, his head is yanked back, throat slashed, and his blood sprays out into the tub like rain. It pours down the metal so fast and begins to slip into drain.

 _This is how I'm gonna die._

 _My throat is going to get slit, I'll be drained like cattle._

 _And I'll be cut up. Fed to a bunch of cannibals without a second thought._

They move onto another man. Repeat the process. Do it again with the next man. There's so much blood I can smell it now, like a bunch of pennies, and it makes me gag into my gag. Someone else dies, I hear the blood splash into the tub.

 _I'm going to die._

Gareth walks in through the door. He's writing something in a notebook. He asks, "Hey, guys, what were your shot counts?"

"Thirty-eight," one of the men answers, then he grunts and the baseball bat swings into another man-the last one before Glenn-I almost scream.

The other man pulls him back, cuts through his throat, more blood shoots into the tub and oh god I think I'm going to have a panic attack. I'm about to have a panic attack. I don't want to die, not like this, not fucking like-

The man is about to swing into Glenn. I'm breathing so hard and I feel Rick nudge into my shoulder, I think he might be trying to get my attention but I can't look over because I don't want to watch Glenn die, not him, not anybody else, I can't-

"Hey!" Gareth says. "Your shot count?"

Hesitation. No swinging. Just blood draining from lifeless bodies. Pennies.

"Crap, man, I'm sorry. It was my first round up."

"After you're done here, go back to your post and count the shells. Kaylee won't be gathering them until tomorrow."

I knew a Kaylee. She was sweet and had a bunch of freckles and she's probably dead now.

"Hey-" Bob yells through his gag. I lean forward and try not to throw up again, squirm a bit, "Hey- leghmetaktayu-"

Gareth ignores him. "Five from A, five from D?"

"Yeah."

Bob yells again. Please just be quiet Bob, please, it's already so loud...

Gareth steps forward, annoyed, and pulls the gag down from Bob's mouth. I have to look over there because if I look in the other direction I'll see the blood and the bodies and it'll make me cry. I'm not gonna cry in front of Gareth, of all people.

Funny how, not even five minutes ago, I was ready to tear into someone and now I'm a blubbering, crying mess.

"What?"

"Don't do this, we can fix this."

"No, we can't-"

"You don't have to do this! We told you there's a way out of all this. You just have to take a chance!"

This won't work. Negotiation never works.

"We have a man who knows how to stop it. He has a cure, we just have to get him to Washington. You don't have to do this, man. We can put the world back to how it was!"

Gareth shakes his head. "Can't go back, Bob."

Told you.

Gareth puts the gag back on and Bob tries to say something, but his voice dies down when he realizes Gareth isn't giving a fuck.

He leans down in front of Rick. Pulls down his gag. It's quiet for a moment, except for someone's heavy breathing and the blood still draining from the dead bodies.

That's my breathing. Loud. Hard. Panic. Pennies. Help.

"We saw you go into the woods with a bag," Gareth tells Rick, " _annnd_ come out without it. Had to pull my spotters back before we could go look for it. What was in it?"

Rick says nothing. I think about trying not to throw up because that'd be a worse death; dying with vomit trapped in your mouth.

"You hid it, right? In case things went bad?"

Oh things went bad alright, Gareth. They went _so_ fucking bad. Bad enough that I think I should have just stayed at Gerald's cabin with the porno magazines and the creek and the clothes made for a giant.

Can't go back, though, right Gareth?

" _Smart._ " He pops his _t_ and I _hate_ it. "Still, we'll find it. But, it's too dangerous to go out there right now."

Gareth draws a knife from his hip and yanks me forward by the neck. I would yelp if I wasn't gagged, and I would be screaming louder than I already am because his knife is pointed _right at my fucking eye._ Gareth looks at me, smiles all big and bright and _charming_ , then turns to look over at Rick.

"What was in it? I'm curious. And… it was a _big_ bag."

Rick doesn't say anything. I can't see him but I want to turn, yell at him, make him tell Gareth what was in the goddamn bag. But I can't because Gareth's grip is so tight on my neck it _hurts._ I think I whimper. His eyes flicker back to me, briefly. "You really gonna let me do this? To a _kid_? I really could care less that he hasn't even hit puberty yet, Rick."

"Well lemme take'ya out there," Rick finally responds. "I'll show you."

"Not gonna happen. This might." The knife inches closer to my eye and I choke out a scream.

"There's guns in it," Rick answers. The knife pauses. I feel a tear fall down my face and I hate it but I could care less now. Better tears than blood. "AK-47, .44 magnum, Colt .45-automatic weapons, night scope. There's a compound bow, _annnd_ a machete with a red-red handle." Rick pauses. "That's what I'm gonna use to kill you."

Gareth laughs. He _fucking laughs_ , then sheathes his knife and lets go of my neck and I slump forward, whimpering into my gag. Everything is on overdrive. I can hear Bob's breathing, smell the pennies, feel the wet fabric on my tongue and the zip ties tearing at my wrists. They're too tight, way too tight, I want them off me…

"Thanks," Gareth tells Rick with a pat on his shoulders, then stands up to back away. He points at the butchers. "You've got two hours to get them on the driers. I'm gonna go back to public face. Now's the time we can get messy but we need to dial it all in by sundown."

"Got it."

"Yes, sir."

There's gunshots. Not too far away, not too close. Gareth must not be expecting it because they stop him in his tracks.

Baseball butcher is about to swing into Glenn and I look away. Can't watch, can't watch, can't watch again-

Another gunshot.

An explosion and it shakes the Earth so hard we all fall to the ground.

I think about earthquakes. They can cause explosions, right? Shake up everything, make us pop like soda cans and open up the ground to swallow us whole. There's yelling; Rick is on top of me and I'm on top of Bob and I can't move, can barely suck in enough air to feel alive. Gareth is gone but the butchers are still here, arguing amongst themselves, right up until Rick is pouncing on them like a lion. He goes for the throat, just like he told us, and then us cutting us free of our binds.

My hands are free and I can finally move them, can finally move myself, and when I reach up to pull away my gag my hands are so slippery with sweat I can't even grab onto it; it makes me yell out, cry, claw at it because I _want it off_ , but then Daryl is in front of me and pulling it away. "C'mon," he tells me, "We gotta go, gotta go now," and I don't want to stand up but he's pulling me off my feet anyways. I feel something climb up my belly, burn at my throat, and then I blow chunks into the tub. My vomit mixes in with the blood and it makes me want to puke even more, but someone pulls me away and pushes the hair from my face.

"Michael!" Glenn yells. I look at him, wipe the bile off of my lips and hiccup so hard my bones rattle. He's right in front of me and has me by the shoulder. "Breathe, Michael. We're getting our people and getting the fuck out of here, but we need you for that, okay? _Okay?_ " Somehow I muster up a nod, even though all I wanna do is shrivel up into a ball until this is all over.

Glenn takes me by the wrist, pulls me along, and with my free hand I grab onto my mother's locket. It's still there, still chained around my neck where it's safe, and that's gotta be _some_ kind of consolation for this mess.

"What are these people?" Bob asks as if it isn't obvious.

"They ain't _people_ ," Daryl growls.

"They were- were gonna fucking eat us," I manage to spit out. Daryl and Bob go to stop the butchers from reanimating but Rick tells them to stop.

"Let 'em turn."

We go through the same doorway Gareth did. The next room is dim and only lit by sunlight from the previous room, but it's enough to see body parts strung from the ceiling and piled in barrels on top of each other. I feel like I'm about to throw up again so I double over, clutch my belly, because this was almost me. Almost _us._

"You cross any of these people," Rick orders, " _kill them._ Don't hesitate. They won't."

Got it. Yep. Yep. Just gotta… just gotta get myself right for a minute. Glenn stays with me as I clutch my stomach, just for a few seconds, but then we have to go. I swipe a knife from one of the tables and follow them to a door. While the adults talk, discuss the plan, I lean against a wall and try to get my own two feet back again. I haven't had a panic attack like that in months, maybe even years, and it's taking everything in me to not keel over right here and now.

Glenn wants to help others locked in a shipping container. He says, "That's still who we are," and even though I just wanna leave I know he's right. Hate it but he's right. "It's gotta be."

Rick looks over at me. "Think you can make it?"

I swallow. My mouth is dry and it tastes like vomit. "Yeah," I lie. Rick nods and then we're charging out the door. It smells of smoke but I take a gulp of fresh air; I'd rather it be smoke than blood and gore. The adults take out walkers as we go for the shipping container and I even manage to help Daryl throw one to the ground, stomp its skull in like a rotten watermelon. We reach the container and take out the walkers surrounding it. Glenn busts open the chain, yanks the door open and a dirty man with long hair and a long beard and writings on his face charges out. He grabs Glenn and when he gets shoved away he goes for Rick. "We're the same!" he screams, "we're the same!" Rick pushes him away. He laughs, staring at us like the devil, and a walker rips a chunk from his throat.

We hide behind the container as walkers go by. Glenn bashes in the crazed man's head and the walker that took him down and Daryl pushes him into the side of the container. We wait. Rick runs off all of a sudden when the walkers get gunned down. Daryl follows him but Glenn keeps me glued to where I stand, and after more gunfire Rick and Daryl return. Rick has an AK-47 and two pistols-he gives one to Bob and the other is pushed into my hands. I lean against the container, examine it; Glock 17, fourteen rounds, safety off. I ignore the screams of men and women being torn apart not too far away.

"We're gonna have'to double back," Rick says.

The rest of the trip is a blur, really.

Somehow we get back to the train car; I remember shooting three times, taking down walkers, following Glenn and Daryl and running through smoke. There's so much adrenaline running through my veins that my legs don't feel like jello anymore and I don't want to throw up. Rick slides open the door, yells at them to get to the fence, and then we're making a beeline. Everyone works as we run; I try to conserve as much ammo as I can, only taking out the dead when I need to. Some of them are on fire, others scorched and missing limbs. Smoke billows into the sky and sometimes we have to run through clouds of it, but eventually, _eventually_ , we get to the fence. Rosita is the first one there and I help her toss an old tarp over the barbed wire. A few of us go first-Rosita, Eugene, Tara, Maggie, Sasha, Carl. Abraham says, "Alright, pip-squeak, c'mon," then practically throws me over the fence with his hands. Some of the barbs cut at my calf and I lose my balance, but when I get over the edge Rosita and Maggie are there to catch me. More and more of our people come and I count them; Glenn, Michonne, Bob, Daryl, Rick, and finally Abraham. We run through the trees, leaving the chaos of Terminus behind, until Rick says we can stop running.

Our merry little band of dirty, bloody, traumatized survivors? We made it out.

Minutes pass and we walk until we arrive at the place where Rick buried the guns. He and Daryl dig it up.

"The hell are we still around here for?" Abraham asks, moving up through us. I've been beside Maggie almost the entire time-she had to keep me from falling over when we finally stopped running because my legs nearly gave out.

"Guns. Some supplies," Rick answers. "Go along the fences, use the rifles. Take out the rest of them."

God. God, please don't make us do that, Rick. I don't know if I can stand killing more than one person within the same twenty-four hours; I don't think I can stand at all, actually.

"What?" Bob asks. Rick looks back at him and says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "they don't get to _live._ "

I lean against a tree. Let my head fall to the side, keep myself gravitated with Maggie's grip around my bicep.

"Rick, we got out," Glenn replies. He flexes his jaw. "It's over."

"It's not over," Rick checks the ammo in his Python, "til they're all dead."

"The hell it isn't!" Rosita points back at Terminus. "That place is on _fire_. Full of walkers." I follow her finger. Yeah, Rosita, it is on fire, but Rick's on fire, too. Fueled by rage that none of us can feel, only see, and it's not hard to miss.

"I'm not dickin' around with this crap," Abraham growls. "We just made it out."

From beside me, Maggie shifts her weight but doesn't let go of me. "Their fences are down. They'll run or die."

Rick doesn't say anything. A twig snaps and behind him a walker comes into view; at least, I think it's walker, until I notice the guns-and the crossbow-hanging off of her back.

The walker isn't a walker. It's Carol.

As soon as Daryl sees her he's running, sweeping her into his arms and holding her like she's the only thing in the world. Some of us go forward; Maggie lets go of me and I use the tree to stabilize myself. Carl, Glenn, Rick, they all move forward. I take a few cautious steps, too, go to another tree a few feet ahead. Carol's eyes are shiny when Daryl pulls away. Rick gets closer.

"Did you do that?" He asks, and I know he's talking about the explosion, the chaos that let us escape. Carol smiles, tight lipped like she doesn't know what to say, and then Rick is hugging her just like Daryl did. When they pull away, Carol whispers something to him and I barely catch it.

"You have to come with me."

The walk isn't very far. Some of the weapons are spread out as we go; I'm given my axe and it's the best feeling in the world to strap it to the side of my belt again. My satchel against my shoulder is a breath of fresh air, too. When we get to our destination, a small, roadside shack with a car parked in front of it, someone walks through the front door and onto the porch.

That person is Tyreese and in his hands is a baby. That baby? It's _Judith_. Rick, Carl and Sasha all run forward. Rick scoops Judith up into his arms, Tyreese replaces her with Sasha. We all watch as the reunion unfolds. And while my body feels like it's been put through a meat grinder and spit out onto hot hard concrete, we've all found our people again.

 _Everyone except Beth._

* * *

 _"When the fires, when the fires have surrounded you,_

 _with the Hounds of Hell comin' after you,_

 _I've got blood_

 _I've got blood on my name._

 _When the fires, when the fires are consumin' you,_

 _and your sacred stars won't be guiding you,_

 _I've got blood_

 _I've got blood on my name…"_


	18. Eighteen: Turn Into the Noise

_**Chapter Eighteen: Turn Into the Noise**_

 _"I think it's time_

 _we turn into the noise,_

 _and leave our bodies,_

 _and leave our bodies behind_

 _I think it's time we leave our bodies behind,_

 _and turn into the noise…"_

* * *

"Ow."

"Quit squirmin'."

"Ow-"

"I said quit squirmin'."

"You're digging into me, Daryl-"

" _Carol._ "

"I got it."

They've been cleaning my wounds.

My wrists are raw from the zip ties and the edges of my mouth are, too, from the gag. A few places in my calf are cut up because of the barbed wire, but Carol says they should be fine. Right now they're focusing on the big gash on my forehead that opened up today. Daryl was doing his best to get the dirt out but it ended up making it worse, so now Carol has taken the rag from him and is gently dabbing away at my temple. It throbs, just a bit, but out of all my other wounds it's the worst. Just a 'real big bleeder,' Daryl called it.

"It's scabbed up bit," Carol says after a minute or two, leaning back on her heels. "Should heal soon. Just try not to hit your head again or you could get a concussion. Wouldn't be the best for you right now."

"Thanks, Carol."

She presses her lips together in a tight lipped smile. It's small and probably forced, but still a smile. More than I've been able to do. "Can you walk fine?"

I say yes with a shake of my head. Rick let us take a breather at the shack and that's where we've been for the past half-hour. I got my balance back and I haven't had to throw up since we left Terminus behind. No more panic attacks, either. I think I might have scared Rick, Daryl, Glenn and Bob back there in the slaughterhouse; Glenn and Maggie were whispering earlier. She glanced back at me and smiled but I knew the whispers were about me. I hate that, too, because I don't want them thinking I'm some kind of liability. I'm _not._ Just a guy who loses touch with gravity and reality sometimes, especially when I'm bent over a metal tub and about to be bled out like a pig.

Still makes me feel like shit, though.

"You good?" Daryl asks. He sits beside me, leaned against one of the shack posts on the porch. Those scrapes and bruises are still there, dotting his face, scratching it up and making him look worse for wear. We all probably look like that, too.

"Gotta be."

He watches, silent, and it must be enough for him. He stands, holds out a hand-I take it and he pulls me to my feet. I bend down to grab Len's bow. It's mine now even if it doesn't feel like it, even if the weight of it hanging across my back is unfamiliar. I have a dead boy's Colt in my holster and a dead man's axe on my hip, and earlier Sasha passed me my switchblade. Said she found it on the floor of the train car after I was taken. I thanked her and then I hugged her and she told me she was glad I was okay.

We leave after a few more minutes. Everyone gets back on the road-we follow the train tracks to one of the Terminus signs, pass it without a second glance and go into the forest. We're done following false promises.

* * *

After nightfall, I take first watch shift with Abraham and Bob. We've made camp at a small cluster of cars in the middle of the road, in a small sort-of triangle shape. Hence the three man watch shifts. Carl and Judith sleep in one of the cars, the only one that doesn't have any busted out windows or hasn't been burned to a crisp. Everyone else lays out, stretched over the concrete. Most of us have to use clothing as pillows but we make it work.

Right now is the first time I've smoked since the cabin.

It takes me a moment to get used to it again. I almost cough so loud it wakes everyone up, but keep that from happening because- well, I don't think waking up a bunch of tired, angry, dirty people would end up good for me.

I'm halfway through the cigarette when someone comes up beside me. I see Glenn standing there in my peripheral, off to the right; he looks over at me and I can tell he's surprised at the fact that I've even got a cigarette in my hand. Truth is, I am too, but oh well.

"You smoke?" He asks me. I shrug.

"Not really. But… I figured I should try it out. End of the world and everything."

Glenn looks like he's about to protest, maybe even take it from my hands and stomp it into the blacktop, but he just looks ahead and says, "Those things'll kill you, y'know."

"I'll add them to the list."

I can hear him smirk.

It's quiet for a bit then. "Can't sleep?" I ask after a few minutes. I've finished the cigarette, so I drop the butt to the ground and put it out with the tip of my shoe. Looks like I beat Glenn to the hypothetical punch.

He rolls his left shoulder and I hear him wince. "Hard to sleep these days. Why'd you take first shift?"

"Hard to sleep these days."

A few more moments of silence.

"You okay, Michael?" Glenn asks. I should make a list of the people that have asked me that same exact question today.

"I'm not, no. I'm really not. I was. For a while I was fine. Even after losing the Prison, things were manageable, but… back there? Leaning over that tub, waiting to be drained… I haven't lost it like that in a while."

"You don't have to explain yourself, man."

"I do."

Glenn says nothing so I continue.

"When I was little, my mom was in a car wreck. Nothing bad, she lived, didn't even break a bone or anything. But after that, it was like… every time I wasn't around her or didn't know where she was, I just panicked. Couldn't even get through an hour at a friend's house without having to call for her to come get me, 'cause I was so scared of something happening to her."

I shake my head and there's a bitter taste on my tongue that won't go away.

"From there, I just got… worse. Felt like I couldn't control anything in my life. It was hard to talk to people, hard to… explain what I was feeling. Especially when I had the panic attacks. I mean, Jesus. How can a nine year old explain why he's balled up and crying in the middle of the floor? But… I got into therapy. I got _help._ Figured out what my triggers were and how to avoid them, how to cope when it got too bad. It worked. But… being in there, at the mercy of those… _monsters._ I couldn't handle that."

Glenn hasn't said anything. I don't expect him too, and I feel a rush of guilt for unloading this onto him.

"I'm sorry I froze," I say after a moment. "I won't let it happen again."

Glenn shakes his head, touches my forearm gently enough to make me look over at him.

"No matter how hard you want, you can't stop bad things from happening. Sometimes we can get past it, other times we can't. You're allowed to lose it once in a while."

"Not when it could get someone killed."

"But you didn't get anyone killed. We _all_ made it out, we _all_ survived, and now we're back together again. Nobody thinks you're gonna get one of us killed, Michael, we're just worried."

Glenn pulls me into his shoulder, running his fingers up and down my shoulder, and I don't protest it because yeah, it feels nice.

"You shouldn't worry." God, I sound so small.

"Yeah? Well, worrying about people comes with caring about them. It's _sort_ of a package deal."

I guess I let myself smile at that.

* * *

The next morning, we eat a very, very small breakfast of cooked squirrel and trail mix. Daryl went out hunting early in the morning and only brought back two, so just over half of us get to actually have some meat. Thanks to pressure from Daryl, I'm one of those lucky ones. Grudgingly. But I make sure the others get enough of the trail mix, even if I only do it with my eyes instead of my words. As the sun rises we get a move on, with no direction in particular that we decide. The smoke from Terminus is eventually out of our sights, and that eases my worries about our past catching up to us.

At one point during the middle of the day we take a break. I sit down against a tree in between Maggie and Tara. We introduce ourselves to each other because it's the first time we actually talk since meeting yesterday. It's easier than the others, mostly because she's as awkward with introductions as me, and I can sympathize with her. No solid connections to the group other than three or four friends, not knowing if she really belongs. I get it. Sometimes I still feel like that, too.

We keep going. Stop to gather water at a creek, then keep going until day turns into night and we're camping in the woods. This time we surround a fire. When Carol wakes me up for second shift watch, I sit beside Tara and face the trees. I notice her shifting uncomfortably a few times every so often, so when she's moved the toe of her shoe for the seventh time I ask, "You okay?"

She looks over at me as if I startled her out of her thoughts. "Huh?"

"Are you okay?"

"Oh. Yeah. I'm fine. Just…"

I wait.

"Trying to work up some nerves."

"What for?"

Tara blinks. Moonlight glares off of her eyes and she takes a deep breath. Looks at me like she's almost scared.

"I… I was with Bri-... The Governor. I was with him when we attacked the Prison."

I blink.

"He told us you were all bad people. Killers. Said we should take the prison for ourselves because we were better, but… he lied. Obviously. I'm sorry."

Blink again. Look over at her and I can see so much remorse, so much guilt in her eyes that I almost feel it, too. She pulls her knees up to her chest and I think she's waiting for something bad to happen.

"Okay."

This time, Tara blinks at me.

"O-...okay?"

I shrug.

"You're… not mad?"

I shake my head. "You didn't know the truth. That isn't your fault." She stares ahead at the ground and I can _feel_ the ease slink into her bones, the worry fall off her shoulders like a shirt too big. "You're one of us now."

She holds out a fist and I bump it.

A few moments go by.

"There was a teenager," I whisper. "He, uh, he was tall. Red hair. Did… did you know him?"

Tara nods.

"What was his name?"

"Did you-..."

"Yeah…" My voice is soft and meek and I think Tara's answer will scare me, but I have to know. I _have_ to know. She clears her throat.

"Tommy."

"Tommy," I say.

* * *

Daryl wakes me up early for a hunt. Rick and Abraham are on watch and when Daryl talks to them, they say that we'll move on our own terms and meet up somewhere later. Rick squeezes my shoulder and I readjust Len's bow and then we're off. The hours go by and we get more than last night; I even get a good collection of a squirrel, a hare and a chipmunk.

I notice Daryl is tracking something; studying the ground, crouching down to brush away leaves and twigs every so often.

"What are you looking for?" I ask him at one point. He glances up at me, just briefly, before we continue on.

"Las' night, before me an' Carol woke you up for watch? w'heard somethin' in the woods not too far from camp."

"Think it could've been some kind of animal?"

Daryl shakes his head. "Was more about… what I felt, not what I heard."

That sends a little explosion into my chest, because even if I've only known Daryl since early spring, I know his gut feeling is something not to be toyed around with.

"What did you feel?" I ask then, after daring myself to even question it in the first place. We look at each other, and then we don't.

"Let's head on back an' meet up with the others."

* * *

When we finally meet up with the others, I step on a twig and then seven barrels are aimed right at us.

"We surrender," Daryl says, holding up his hands in mock… well, surrender. The string of dead game swings back and forth, back and forth, then we merge with the rest of our people. I fade in somewhere between Tara and Abraham; he stands so much taller than me that I could probably fall into orbit around him like the moon. That thought makes me grin, until someone far away is screaming for help and our quiet morning is ruined.

Carl yells at his dad to "Come on!" His voice is urgent, desperate, he wants to help whoever's screaming-a man I think-but we've just been through hell and back. Going to save a stranger calling for help could turn to walking into a trap so quickly that I almost don't want to follow the screams.

We do anyways.

I think it's because I'm the closest to Rick when we start running, but Judith is pressed into my arms before I can protest. It's the first time I've actually held her and the first time I've held a baby in years, especially in the exposed danger of the wilderness, but the fact that Rick is giving me _this_ responsibility-even for the smallest of moments- it terrifies me. It might have made me feel good if we weren't rushing into possible danger.

After a few tense moments of weaving through the trees, we come across a man fending off walkers on top of a boulder. He has dark brown skin and wears all black and Carl shoots the walker grabbing at his foot. Rick, Carol, Michonne, and Daryl all rush to take out the dead, and when it's all done and over with Rick says, "Clear, keep watch."

Sasha, Tyreese and Maggie surround me when the danger seems to be clear. It's like a wall of tall people shielding me from the rest of the world, and for a moment I'm confused until I realize I have Judith. She's staring up at me with her big blue eyes and I don't even know if she's blinked since I got her. Just stared at me like I'm the most fascinating thing ever.

God, babies are adorable.

"Come on down," Rick tells the man. It takes him a moment but he finally slides down, landing on his feet, albeit clumsily. He's trembling, shaking like a leaf. "You okay?" Rick asks, and the man can only hold up one finger before spewing vomit all over the forest floor. A part of me feels bad for him but I hope I don't let it show, instead bounce Judith a bit when she lets out a curious whine. Thankfully I can only see his top half from between Sasha and Maggie's shoulders.

"Sorry," the man says, standing up to his full height-which really isn't that much taller than me. I notice a white stripe on his collar and realize, with confusion, that this man is dressed like a priest. "Yes. Thank you. … I'm Gabriel."

"D'you have any weapons on you?" Rick asks. Gabriel chuckles nervously, glances back at Michonne as if to ask if Rick is being serious. She examines him with the same intensity as everyone else and he looks back, deflated.

"Do I look like I have any weapons?"

"We don't give to short and curlies what it looks like," Abraham says, and Gabriel looks over at him. He seems shocked that we would think he has a violent bone in his body.

"I have no weapons of any kind," Gabriel announces. "The word of God is the only protection I need."

I think I notice Glenn shift closer to me when Gabriel says this.

Daryl scoffs. "Sure didn't look like it." Gabriel seems amused by him.

"I called for help. Help came."

Silence. Everyone watches him with an equal amount of suspicion and disbelief, because there's no way in hell this man has survived like this for two years.

Gabriel seems put off by our intensity, our silence. "Do you-have any food?" He asks. "Whatever I… had left, just hit the ground."

"We've got some pecans," Carl answers, holding said pecans out. Gabriel takes them.

"Thank you."

Judith speaks jibberish loudly in my arms. I don't understand what she says because it's jibberish and I don't speak that, but it grabs Gabriel's attention.

"That's a beautiful child," he says. I move my gaze away from him and readjust my grip around Judith's back. Nobody says anything again and I think it makes Gabriel even more nervous.

"Do you… uh, do you have a camp?"

Rick is quick to reply, doesn't even wait a beat, "No. Do you?"

"I have a church."

"Put your hands above your head."

He does and Rick starts to pat him down.

"How many walkers have you killed?"

"Not any, actually-"

"Turn around." Before Gabriel can even obey Rick is spinning him to face the bloodied up boulder.

"How many people have you killed?"

" _None._ "

Rick is finished with the pat down.

" _Why_?"

"... Because the Lord abhors violence."

Rick gets close to him. Stares into his gaze and I think this scares Gabriel. "What have you _done_?" Gabriel seems to not understand the question. "We've all done something," Rick continues.

"I'm a sinner. I sin almost every day. But those sins, I confess them to God. Not _strangers_."

Michonne speaks up for the first time since finding Gabriel. "You said you had a church?"

* * *

He's taking us to his church.

Carl has Judith and it's a relief; not because I didn't like holding her, but because I didn't trust myself not to lose my grip and drop her or to know what to do if a walker came at us. But she's in her brother's arms now and I'm up ahead, trailing along behind Michonne, Maggie and Tyreese as they follow Gabriel, Rick and Daryl. Rick asks him if he was watching us last night.

"I keep to myself. Nowadays, people are just as dangerous as the dead, don't you think?"

"No," Daryl answers, even though Gabriel probably meant it rhetorically. "People are worse."

"Well, I wasn't watching you. I haven't been beyond the stream by my church more than a few times since it all started. That was the furthest I've gone before today."

We stay silent but then Gabriel tries joking. "Or maybe I'm lying. Maybe I'm lying about everything and there's no church ahead at all. Maybe I'm leading you into a trap so I can steal all your squirrels."

Nobody laughs. Gabriel notices this, clears his throat. "I've been told that my sense of humor leaves much to be desired."

Clearly.

"Yeah, it does," Daryl grumbles.

A for effort, though, Gabriel.

He says nothing, bumps into a tree branch, then doesn't speak until we finally get to his church.

It's white and old and has a steeple, too, and there's a little fence just a few yards in front of it. Fallen leaves are everywhere, especially piled up under a big oak tree not too far from the church. We reach the front door and I notice "SAINT SARAH'S CHURCH - Episcopal" on a sign by the fence.

"Hold up," Rick says before Gabriel can unlock the doors."Can we take a look around, first? We just wanna hold onto our squirrels."

Gabriel drops the key into his hand. The rest of us wait as Rick, Michonne, Daryl, Carol and Glenn all spread through the church and look for anything damning. Gabriel seems a bit nervous, probably leftover from earlier, but waits patiently for the others to finish searching. Abraham, Rosita and Sasha make rounds to search each side of the church, then return and ask Gabriel about a shortbus.

"It broke down long before the start, a few minor problems we just didn't get around to fixing. But, by all means-take it if you want."

After a few minutes there's a whistle and our people exit the church. There seems to be no problem, because their faces are calm and Gabriel doesn't have a hole in his face yet.

"I spent months without stepping out the front door," Gabriel says, "if you found someone inside… well, it would have been surprising."

"Thank you for this," Carl speaks up.

"We found a shortbus out back," Abraham tells Rick, "It don't run but I'm sure we could fix it less in a day or two. Father here says he doesn't want it." Rick runs his hand over Judith's hair. "Looks like we found ourselves some transport." When Rick doesn't say anything, Abraham continues. "You understand what's at stake here, right?"

"Yes, I do."

"Now that we can take a breath-" Michonne starts.

"We take a breath," he interrupts, "we slow down, shit inevitably goes _down._ "

"We need supplies, no matter what we do next."

"That's right," Rick agrees. "Water, food, ammunition."

Daryl tells Abraham that the shortbus "Ain't goin' nowhere," and we all file inside. "Bring you back some baked beans."

Inside the church there are stain glass windows. Pews. Hardwood flooring. Two doorways, one leading into an office and the other leading into a children's room, then a bathroom. A few storage closets here and there. It looks like a regular church; not like the one my grandparents went to back before the start. That one was bigger, had more rooms and a fountain right when you entered through big glass doors. Rick starts to question Gabriel but I don't pay attention; I set my satchel down on one of the pews, lean Len's bow against it. They're two weights off my shoulders that help ease up the dull soreness in them.

It's time to familiarize myself with this place, I suppose. The front area of the church has a bunch of opened, empty cans; Gabriels says they're from a food drive just before the outbreak. I don't know if I believe him yet. There are drawings tacked to walls in the office, in the kids room and even in the bathroom. Gabriel's office has a bunch of open books, bibles, a notebook. It looks like he's started rewriting the bible to help pass time. I don't blame him.

Later, once we've all settled into our new and probably temporary base, Rick tells us we're gonna split up to find supplies. Daryl and Carol are going to look for water, Glenn, Maggie and Tara are checking out a gun store in town, and Rick is taking a group to get food from another food drive in another part of town. I'm about to ask if he wants me going with him, but then Rick takes me aside.

"I wanted to thank you. For earlier, with Judith, and… that night on the road."

My stomach flares up. _That night_ , with Joe and Dan and Billy when Carl almost got raped and I claimed my second life. Get it. Claimed.

"You don't have to thank me," I say. I think I'm getting flustered so I look down at the hardwood.

"I do."

"I was _with_ them, Rick-"

"You were _surviving._ You don't have anythin' to be sorry for."

I look up at him. Don't say anything but I do look up at him.

"I want you here," Rick continues, "With Carl an' Tyreese. Abraham, Rosita and Eugene will be here, but I want you watching over _our_ people. That okay with you?"

For a second I'm silent. For a second I think he just wants to keep me here so I don't fuck things up, like back at the slaughterhouse when all I could do was scream and puke and-

"Is… is it because of what happened? Back at Terminus?"

Rick doesn't say anything, even looks a bit confused, so I elaborate.

"When I was… freaking out…"

There's this moment when Rick's gaze softens, and it's like something you only ever see once in your lifetime-like a shooting star or a meteor shower or a volcanic eruption. Anything rare, really. And then he takes my shoulder, squeezes it.

"No. It isn't."

And I believe him. I really believe him, even if a part of me is telling not to. So I let out a shaky breath, nod and say, "Okay. Yeah. I'll take care of them." Rick squeezes my shoulder again before leaving to talk with Carl. Daryl and Carol leave; I don't say goodbye, just tell them to be careful and to be back soon. Then the core chunk of our group leaves, and under orders from Rick, I shut the door behind them.

* * *

 _"We will be the noise,_

 _the noise together_

 _together we will be the noise,_

 _we will turn into the noise_


	19. Nineteen: Easy

_**Chapter Nineteen: Easy**_

 _"Easy_

 _easy_

 _pull out your heart to make the_

 _being alone_

 _easy…"_

* * *

It gets boring fast.

While I'm glad Rick thinks I'm trustworthy enough to stay with his children, to help keep them safe while most of our people are out and have left us virtually defenseless, I can't help but wonder if it was just to keep me from screwing things up. But he told me it wasn't, that he wanted me to protect them. And I believed him then, so I'll continue to believe him now.

But like I said. It gets boring, especially when you're left with a baby and nothing to do. I mostly stick to sitting with Carl and Judith; one time I read _Rose Madder_ to them even though it's in the middle of the book. Carl listens along as Rose carries Caroline the baby through the labyrinth, and Judith just watches the both of us like usual. At some point Tyreese listens in, too, and then Carl has to go to the bathroom. When he's gone Tyreese and I have to change Judith's diaper; he's surprised that I know how to and when he asks, I answer, "Had a little brother," like it's the most simple thing in the world.

"How old were you when he was born?" Tyreese asks. And I surprise myself by answering that, too.

"Eight. But he pooped a lot so I had to get the hang of it. My dad… really didn't have a lot to do with it, so it was just me and my mom most of the time."

Judith makes one of those baby noises and I grin. "We made the best of it, though."

We finish tying up her diaper and I boop her on the nose. It's quiet until Tyreese speaks up.

"Carol killed Karen and David."

I look up at him. Blink a few times because I don't know if I just heard him right.

"Back at the Prison… they got sick after Patrick, before everyone else. Carol thought she could stop it from spreading, before it got to anyone else, but… it didn't."

I don't even know what to say.

"She did it, but she's living with it, and I think you should accept it. I… I think everyone should. I forgave her. I want you to, too."

This Tyreese is very different than the one from three weeks ago. The one I knew from before wanted to get his hands around whoever killed Karen, take them by the neck and squeeze until there was no life left. He's merciful now. Something changed, but seeing how he was in that state… I'm glad.

"Okay," I say. "I'm sorry you lost her, man. I didn't say it before, but… I mean it. I am."

Later, I go out and do a perimeter check. A walker approaches from the road, trips over the wooden fence and gets back up. I draw an arrow, pull back and aim; hit it in the shoulder because it moves and my aimpoint is thrown off. I try again, this time move my bow with it, then manage to at least get it through the jaw. It still moves, so I say, "Fuck it," and slash it through the face when it gets too close for me to try and shoot again. I take my arrows from its corpse, wipe the blood on its clothes and move on with my check. Abraham and Rosita are outside, working on the bus like they said, and Eugene sits on a bench kicking rocks around with his feet. Definitely not something a doctor would do, but…

"You're sure?" Rosita asks Abraham. I'm out of sight, standing against one of the church walls and smoking. I can see Abraham's legs and Eugene through the bus windows. "You think _all_ of them can help?"

"Sure as shit. You've seen 'em in action, Rosita."

"What about the kid?"

"Rick's?"

"No, the other one that's always hanging around Daryl. Michael, I think."

"What about him? Fucker's quiet and shaky like a damn leaf, but I saw him fight. Did you see their catch this morning? Could probably shoot the asshole off a snake from a mile away. Probably." Rosita laughs.

I probably can't but the statement makes me grin anyways. I wait a few minutes, until they're on a different subject, before finishing my perimeter check and back inside.

* * *

Rick's crew brings back food. _A lot_ of it. Enough for us to make a large dinner, place it on the front table and dig in like champions. Gabriel even lets us use some communion wine hidden away in his office. I have a Styrofoam plate full of food-carrots, peas, diced tomatoes. Squirrel from this morning, even. It's night now and glasses of wine have been passed around; the adults let me have some, even though a few of them were reluctant. Guess me being seventeen was still enough towarrant some hesitance. When I first tasted it, it was bitter and left a weird aftertaste, but I drank some anyways because why not?

I'm sitting cross legged beside Daryl. I got a new flannel to wear instead of my torn up jacket and some new socks, too. The church is full of chatter and lit up by candle light and even though we've been through hell, even if I'm still a killer and I don't have my girlfriend beside me and none of us have a home… tonight is the first peaceful night we've had in a while. So I let that sink into my bones, soften up my gaze and my brain and even have a little fun.

"I'd like to propose a toast," Abraham bellows over us. He waits a few moments as we all settle down, get quiet. A few of us sit down and the others just wait patiently.

"I look around this room… and I see survivors. Each and every _one_ of you has earned that the survivors!"

"Survivors!"

"Cheers!"

We raise our glasses. I take a drink, let that bitterness soak into my tongue and fall down my throat. I like to think I've earned it.

"Is that all you wanna be?"

Oh.

Well.

Okay.

"Wake up. Fight the undead pricks, forage for food, go to sleep at night with two eyes open. Rinse and repeat? 'Cause you can do that. You got the strength, you got the skill. Thing is, for you people, what you can do. Now that's just _surrender._ Now, we get Eugene to Washington and he will make the dead die and the _living_ will have this world again. And that is _not_ a bad takeaway from this little road trip."

Pause for effect. Abraham seems to have a flair for the dramatics.

"Eugene. What's in DC?"

Eugene clears his throat. Looks around nervously, as if he isn't used to this part of the recruiting procedure. Because this is what it is, right? Recruiting us to go on a journey that might kill some of us or might kill us all.

"Infrastructure constructed to withstand pandemics even of this fubar magnitude. That means food, fuel, refuge. Restart."

Doesn't sound too bad, does it?

"However this plays out, however long it takes for the reset button to kick in," Abraham says. "You can be safe there. Safer than you've been since this whole thing started. Come with us."

I don't know what happens next, because I'm looking over and Carol is slinking out the front door. I know it's her because I see a flash of silver hair and a backpack and I'm confused, because why would she need a backpack when just going outside?

I turn to my left, where Daryl is sitting. I tap his thigh and he looks over.

"Carol just went outside."

Daryl stares at me.

"She had her backpack on."

Something shifts in Daryl's eyes, and then he's getting up and grabbing his crossbow. He walks past me, quietly and to the front door, and against my better judgement I go, too. Don't have time to grab anything but Len's bow because it's the only thing I think of, and then I follow Daryl outside to the sound of cheering and clinking glasses.

Carol is already gone when we get outside.

"Where could she have gone?" I ask, running down the front steps after Daryl. He looks around for a moment, thinking, before he goes off towards the trees.

"Follow me."

* * *

It's a short trek through the woods until we reach another road. I tried asking more questions but Daryl just shushed me, which really isn't much of an answer but I don't care.

We get to the road. A car is running, its engine humming loudly, and when we walk out of the treeline Carol is taking out a walker. It drops to the ground and she turns to face us, startled by the rustling bushes when we walk through them.

"What're you doin'?" Daryl asks, almost as if he doesn't want the answer. Carol glances at him, then me, then back to him. She looks defeated; deflated like a worn out balloon that's been stretched too much.

"I don't know."

They stare at each other for what seems like hours, but it's barely a couple of seconds. It's like they have a secret conversation in their heads together.

"Come on," Daryl says.

Then there's an engine louder than the car beside us that fills the air; a vehicle drives by, down the road this one connects to. Daryl sprints to the edge of the road, looks at the car as it drives off, and then he's rushing back and breaking out the tail lights with his crossbow.

"What are you doing?!" Carol asks, her voice raised and her hands up to grab the sides of her head. "What are you doing?!"

"Daryl!" I yell, and he turns back at us like we're two thorns in his side.

"They have _Beth_!" He growls at us, breaking the other light, and then he's saying, "Come on, come one _get in_ ," and I do because _Beth._ Beth? They have _Beth?_

Daryl zooms off into the dark and I don't know what to say. Don't even know what to think, because according to him we're driving off after the people that took Beth.

"It was just you and Beth, after?" Carol asks after a few minutes of trailing the car. Daryl keeps his distance but doesn't stray too far behind, and I keep bouncing my knee in the back seat because I'm so fucking anxious. Such a big mess for such a small body.

"Yeah."

"You save her?"

"She's tough. She saved herself."

So many conversations. Talking about how much she'd lost, how she had to go through it so she could take care of her father and her sister. I would look at her and smile because, god, she's one of the strongest people I know.

"We were out there for a while. We were cornered, she got out in front of me, and… I don't know. She was just gone."

Gone. Gone with the wind like Scarlett O'Hara's innocence and the glorious south.

"I came out and there was a car, pulling out with a white cross on the back window."

"Just like that one?"

"Yep."

A walker is on the ground. Daryl runs over its head; the car jolts and neither Carol nor Daryl flinch.

Carol turns around in her seat. I think she's trying to see what we ran over. She glances at me and I must look pretty messy, as messy as I feel, but she doesn't say anything and instead turns back around.

"Rick's gonna wonder where we went," Daryl mentions. He grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white, and even I can see it. "Tank's runnin' low…"

"We can end this quick," Carol says, "just run him off the road."

That would work, actually.

"Nah, we're good for a bit."

"If they're holding her somewhere we can get it out of the driver."

I remember watching one of those crime TV shows when I was younger. One of the bad guys had been kidnapped by the good guys, and they had a rag over his face and were pouring water over it. My dad said it was called waterboarding. It was supposed to make him feel like he was drowning. At the time I didn't know why the good guys would do that to someone, because… well, they were the good guys.

"We could waterboard him," I say. I don't even think about it. Carol turns back at me and Daryl looks through the rearview mirror.

"We don't have any water _to_ waterboard him with. And if he don't talk we're back to square one. Right now we got the advantage. We'll see who they are-if they're a group, we'll see what they can do."

I lean back in my seat.

"And then we'll do what we gotta do to get her back."

I'll kill for Beth. I've killed for myself too much now. But if it's for someone else next time-maybe it'll hurt me less in the end.

"They're heading north. I-85," Carol says.

"Doesn't that… lead into Atlanta?" I ask. Daryl looks at me through the rear view mirror again.

"Yeah. It does."

* * *

It's another hour or two before we get to the city.

It's dark and lifeless and not at all how it probably used to be. Last time I was here, before the turn, there were lights and cars and people walking everywhere. Now it's just a giant concrete graveyard.

But then we stop, because the car stops. It sits there, waiting, and after a moment of leaning forward to watch it through the windshield I ask, "What's it doing? Just sitting there?"

Neither of them answer and I didn't expect them to. So we just sit, keep watching and waiting. The tail lights shut off and I think that means the engine has, too, so Daryl does the same thing and leans back in his seat. A man gets out of the passenger side-"There's two of 'em," Daryl says. When I get a better look I see something flash off his chest; a police badge?

"Is that a cop?"

Carol pulls out that small revolver of hers. Daryl looks over at her and she says, "They might have seen us," so I pull out my Colt. Just in case. It's heavy and slick in my hand because my palms are sweaty.

The cop walks out of our sight. It's quiet, so quiet I think nothing is going to happen, until something slams on Carol's window and I almost jump out of my skin. A walker is here, pawing at the glass and eyeing them up like a meal. It snarls, thuds against the car, but we watch as the cop drags things around in a lot littered with trash. He stops when he gets beside the car door, stares back, and for a moment I think he'll come rushing forward and hold us at gunpoint…

But then he gets in the car and we're safe. For now. The engine starts, it drives into the lot and out of sight. Daryl takes this as his cue to start our car, but instead it sputters and groans and makes that god awful clicking noise that lets you know it's out for the count.

"Shit," Daryl grumbles, "tank's tapped. … they'd have taken the bypass and they didn't. Must be holed up in the city somewhere."

Carol nods. I chew on my bottom lip, then realize more walkers are showing up. A few stumble out of the shadows, monsters, and then Daryl says, "We gotta move, find someplace to hole up til sunlight."

Carol looks around. I don't because I have no idea where we can go, but then she speaks up and I don't have to think anymore. "I know a place, a couple of blocks from here. We can make it."

Carol rolls down her window, dispatches the walker, and then we're running off into the darkness. I keep a flashlight in one hand, my axe in the other as we weave in and out of the streets, slashing walkers and dodging small clusters as we go. This is why, as survivors, we stay away from the cities; they're filled to the brim with the dead. It seems like there's more during the night, but that may just be because I can barely see any and rely on following Carol and Daryl. Eventually, we make it to the back alley of a building, and it takes Daryl a few tries to open up a back door leading into said building. Inside, there are columns lined with fake plants; the floor is pristine and untouched, other than a dead body in a hall, and when Carol leads us down it Daryl bends over to pick up a set of keys. We go through a doorway that says "Service Center."

"You used to work here or something?" Daryl asks Carol. She waits a second before replying.

"Something."

They push a desk in front of a doorway, blocking it, and when Carol tries opening another door Daryl hands her the keys to unlock it. Carol goes through, I follow, Daryl follows and he shuts the door. The walls are a pasty cream color, with a few halls and a vacant bathroom. Carol leads us into a room, which has a bunk bed, a few desks, a dresser. There's a window with a white curtain and the top bunk is blue, bottom bunk is pink.

"What is this place?" I ask, shining my light over the desk.

"It's temporary housing," Carol answers.

 _Treating Survivors of Childhood Abuse,_ a book title reads.

Oh.

 _This_ kind of temporary housing.

"You came here?" Daryl asks. I don't ask her anything because I don't know Carol well enough to do that. Not my business, and I like to think I'm not nosy.

"We didn't stay."

 _We._

"I'll take the top bunk. You two can fight over the bottom one-it suits you both."

I shake my head, grin. Daryl scoffs and when he turns to me, he says, "Bunk's yours."

"You sure?"

He nods and I don't press the matter, because it _does_ look comfortable.

"Thanks. I've been told pink is my color."

I slip off my bag, set it down on the bunk. When I've leaned Len's bow against the railing, Carol says, "You two should get some sleep. I'll take first watch."

"This is locked up pretty tight."

"I know."

"We're good then."

"I'll keep first watch. I don't mind." Carol stares out the window.

"Suit yourself."

Daryl sits down and leans against one of the dressers. I feel bad because he won't be getting a bed tonight and I will, but I know he'll just make me sleep here anyways. So I sit down, feel the blanket under my fingers. It's soft and thin and the mattress sinks down under my weight.

"You said we get to start over," Carol murmurs, looking over at Daryl.

"Yeah."

"Did you?"

I lean back. Pull my knees up, over the bed, lay them out all the way. Perks of being short; your legs usually don't hang off the edge of the bed.

"I'm tryin'."

 _Yeah, Daryl. I am, too. Even though I've already restarted plenty of times I'm trying, again._

There's no more talk for a few moments. It's quiet and the bed is surprisingly comfortable once you get used to it.

"What if that's all we're doing?" I ask aloud. "Just… using up fresh start after fresh start. I mean, jeez… that's the whole reason I'm here in the first place."

Daryl looks at me.

"I moved here, to Savannah, when I was thirteen. My mom had just divorced my dad and we had nowhere to go, so her parents let me, my brother and her stay with them for a while. She called it 'our very own special restart button,' but… it just felt like running from the past."

"We ain't runnin' from nothin'," Daryl says. He says it like I should believe him, so I do. Gotta. And then we're quiet until Daryl looks back over at Carol.

"Why don't you say what's really on your mind?"

She wrings her hands together.

"I don't think we get to save people anymore."

Even Beth? Do I think we can save her? Rescue her from whoever's keeping her locked up? What if she's in a cage we can't find the key to, or a closet that has a broken doorknob? Then what?

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm tryin'."

She turns to me. Walks forward, tells me to scooch and so I do. She sits down on the bed and Daryl gets up. I move over, he sits where I was, and then we're all in a row looking up at the bottom of the top bunk. Like the three musketeers, just sadder and dirtier.

"What would you have done if we didn't show up at the car?" Daryl asks her. Carol watches him.

"I still don't know."

* * *

 _"Easy_

 _easy_

 _pull out the heart that keeps you_

 _feeling alone_

 _easy…"_

* * *

 **thank you to everyone who's been favoriting, reviewing, and even just silently reading along as the story progresses.**


	20. Twenty: Trouble

_**Chapter Twenty: Trouble**_

 _"We were at the table by the window in the view,_

 _casting shadows, the sun was pushing through,_

 _spoke a lot of words, I don't know if I spoke the truth..._

* * *

It's been a few minutes. Carol and Daryl are quiet, so am I. There's nothing else to talk about, nothing to do except wait for the night to pass and morning to come. The three of us lie on the bottom bunk in a row and I think this might be how we fall asleep; our legs dangling off the edge and midsections pressed together, side by side. It wouldn't be the first time. Probably won't be the last.

Someone lets out a breath and then there's a distant banging somewhere in the building.

My eyes open. I didn't realize they'd been shut-maybe I was already falling asleep, despite the churning anxiousness in my belly. Regardless, we're all climbing off the bed and grabbing our weapons without a word. Carol takes her rifle from the top bunk; it's a massive thing that I'm surprised she can even carry. I leave Len's bow here because it'd probably do more harm than good.

Quietly, we make our way down the hall, past doors and closets and windows, until we take a left and there it is; two glass doors with the number 7 on the wood border. Behind it is a silhouetted walker, until another one presses itself against the other door. It's small and frail and I realize that this must have been a mother and daughter, locked in here for all eternity.

I blink at it. Watch them claw at the doors, snarl against glass and fog it up even more than it already was. A part of me sees my brother and my mother, even though I buried my brother and I never figured out what happened to my mother. But I still see them and it makes my spine go rigid.

Beside me, Carol stares. Her face has gone expressionless, unmoving, and I think I hear her breath hitch right before she takes a step forward. Daryl holds an arm in front of hers.

"You don't have to."

Carol looks at him. Moves forward, nearly grabs the doorknob, but Daryl moves with her.

" _You don't_."

She backs up. Turns around, walks past me and goes on back to our room without another word.

* * *

The next morning, Daryl wakes me up. He gives me a water bottle, tells me to drink some and get something in my stomach, so we sit at a small table in the quiet.

"You talk in your sleep," Daryl says after a few minutes. I blink at him.

"I do?"

"Mm-mm."

"What did I say?"

"Jus'... whole lotta nonsense."

"I say any names?"

Daryl nods. "Isaac."

Of course I did. I don't remember my dream from last night, only that it left me with a sick feeling and that dark, lonely atmosphere you get after a rainy day turns into a rainy night.

"Who was he?" Daryl asks me. I think maybe he knows what's bugging at me, that I keep thinking about that mother and daughter in the other room. Maybe he's telepathic and has known it all along.

"My brother."

"Older?"

"Younger. He was eight."

"When did he die?"

"About… four. Five months before that day you and Sasha and Glenn found me."

Daryl nods and then he's quiet for a few minutes.

"Did… Carol have any kids?" I ask him.

"Daughter."

I say nothing. Take another swig of water and pass the bottle to Daryl, and then he's telling me to follow him. I do. We leave the room, go down the hall and to the double doors. He tells me to open one of them, let one out, so I do; the mother comes first and Daryl is gentle when he stabs her in the head. And then comes the daughter, her legs are so thin and small and then it's over, just like that, and we're rolling their bodies up into sheets and carrying them outside to a back lot. We set them down, side by side. Daryl pours lighter fluid on them, drops a match and then they light up like they've been waiting for fire this entire time. Waiting for release. And I suppose they have; all you can do as a walker is wait.

Sometime later, Carol comes outside. She walks over, stands between us and murmurs, "Thank you." Daryl and I stay silent and for a while we all just stand there, watching as a mother and her daughter finally go somewhere that isn't _here._ And then we go inside as if nothing had happened at all.

"That car was headed downtown," Daryl says. I'm tying my flannel around my waist because outside is way too hot to be wearing it, even if it may protect my skin from sunburn (I rarely ever burn, anyways). "I say we get up in one of the tall ones, get ourselves a view. See what we see."

Carol picks up her rifle and I'm still surprised at how fluid her movements are; as if she's done this her entire life. "We can stay close to the buildings and keep quiet, but sooner or later we're gonna be drawing 'em."

The dead. Relentless fuckers, to say the least.

Outside, the city is a completely different place in the daytime. Trash is littered everywhere, bodies sprawled out over the concrete. Grass is overgrown and pokes out through the pavement, trees take back the small parks they'd been secluded to by man.

Daryl leads us up an incline. The shadows of the tall buildings make for good protection against the sun, and then we stop, press ourselves against a wall. He peeks past the turn, looks back at us.

"Alright. We can get up there, there's a bridge."

Daryl yanks a notepad out of his bag, lights it up, then tosses it into a pile of trash across the street. It bursts into flames and the walkers are all drawn to it, and once they're all there we're sneaking by and making our way into a parking garage. It's one of those big ones with more than three levels and quite a few cars still parked in the spaces, forgotten by their previous owners (dead and alive). We get to the skybridge, open up a boarded up door.

This used to be a camp.

I don't know how many there are, but at least four of them are in sleeping bags, reanimated and writhing around with nothing to do. They see us and seem to reanimate from their dormancy, but we kill them before they can tear out of their cocoons.

"Some days I don't know what to think," Daryl says after putting a bolt in the final walker. Carol and I look at the same thing; two bloody bullet holes in one of the sleeping bags. In further on down the skybridge are three tents, each of them with their own walkers. One tumbles down right before Daryl walks past it, but other than that they seem to be trapped; so we continue, getting all the way down to the other end, where the double doors are chained shut. Luckily we can squeeze through, so we do just that and make our way into the building.

It looks to be some kind of office; there are ugly paintings on the wall and fake plants in corners, and the wall is a creamy off-white color. Daryl opens a door to an office, peeks in; when he whistles, giving us the all clear, we file inside after him.

The office looks like… well, any other office in a high paying American job. There's a coat rack with a hat and a jacket in the corner of the room, a table with two oddly shaped vases under a painting, and two leather chairs and a desk in front of large windows that take up half the wall space. When we're up by one of the windows, staring down at the charred streets burned up by napalm bombings from two years ago, Carol asks, "How did we get here?"

Through pain. Sweat, blood and tears. Wishing it would just get easier and not letting it disappoint you when the reality check hits, and you know it won't be getting easier. You _know_ it, but you keep hoping anyway, even if it tears you apart to try.

Right?

"Mm-mm," Daryl grunts. "We just did."

Wandering, stumbling, walking. Running. Sleeping under bridges and in closets. Hiding from the dead and running from them when they find you.

"You still haven't asked me what happened. After I met up with Tyreese, the girls."

Daryl slings his crossbow over his shoulder. "Yeah, I know what happened. They ain't here."

Just like so many other things.

"It was worse than that."

Daryl watches her. He glances at me.

"The reason I said we get to start over? It's 'cause we gotta. The way it was…" He trails off.

"Yeah…"

Daryl's face changes and then he's peering through the glass.

"You see something?"

"I dunno. Hand me that rifle."

He looks through the rifle scope for whatever he saw, and after a moment, hands it back to Carol and pokes the glass. "Right there." Carol repeats his action.

"It's been there a while… definitely one of them."

"What is it?" I ask, and then Carol hands me her rifle. I raise it up to my shoulder, ignore how heavy it feels and look through the scope. For a second, all I can see is charred buildings, overgrown trees and vines and wreckage, until my eye catches something white; a dirty van, hanging off the edge of a bridge with two white crosses on the back windows.

"It's definitely some kind of lead," Daryl says, and I give Carol her rifle back. We're quiet for a moment but I'm bustling with anticipation. Whatever we find in that van has to lead to Beth.

"We should fill up," Carol tells us, but I don't want to fill up I wanna to find Beth-find her and grab her and bring her back to that church with us so we can all eat and drink and have fun and I can kiss her again like it's our last day on Earth.

"Alright," Daryl replies, and I want to shrivel up inside myself. But I don't. It's anatomically impossible.

Carol uses one of those half empty water dispensers-the one that makes bubbles when you get water from it-to fill up her canteen. She takes a drink, offers it to Daryl, and he points at a painting by the window. "I bet this cost some rich prick a _lot_ of money. Looks like a dog sat in paint and wiped its ass all over the place."

Despite the buzzing in my chest I laugh.

"Really?" Carol says, her hands on her hips. "I kinda like it."

Daryl scoffs. "Stop."

"I'm _serious._ You don't know me."

"Yep… you keep tellin' yourself that."

I shake my head and follow the others when we finally leave. On the way back to the skybridge, I say, "My grandparents had a ton of paintings like that in their house. My grandfather said it was for my grandmother, that _she_ was the one who liked that kinda stuff, but he liked it, too. Just wouldn't admit it."

"Your grandparents had good taste," Carol says, and Daryl arches an eyebrow.

"Yeah… I bet."

* * *

We get back to the skybridge, and like before, Carol goes in first; but when Daryl sticks his head through, I hear her say, "Daryl, don't!" and a gun cocks.

"Get up!"

Not Daryl's voice, not Carol's, not mine. A stranger. "Hands up, both of you." Daryl crawls through the door and it shuts behind him and I want to go, want to pull out my Colt and shoot whoever's on the other side of that door.

"Lay down your crossbow."

It's a man. A man with a gun who might blow holes in Daryl and Carol and I'll be here on my own, again.

"You got some sack on you."

"Look, nobody has to get hurt-I just need weapons, that's it! So please, lay down your crossbow."

Something clatters to the ground.

"Back up."

Nothing for a long moment, then, "Sorry about this," and my heart almost explodes because I expect to hear a burst of gunfire-two bodies to hit the floor. "You look tough. You'll be alright."

No gunshots. Something tears and the walker snarls get louder, and then, _then_ there's a gunshot; one, two, and I'm climbing through the doors because _fuck_ not being seen, _fuck_ hiding. But there are only the bodies of the dead, neither of which belong to my companions, and I want to scream from relief. Daryl and Carol are standing, they're alive, but both look _equally_ pissed off. "C'mon," Daryl orders and I do, I follow them down the skybridge and to the door in which we came. But it's locked, chained up, and we have to find another way out.

"How much ammo you got left?" Daryl asks us. He's stomping forward with so much force I think he might just crack the foundation.

I check my clip, look around my satchel at the loose bullets I haven't put into a baggie yet. "Full clip of seven and some change. Five arrows."

Carol closes the cylinder to her revolver. It's a tiny little thing that's probably older than all of us, and I think that's what made the gunshots earlier. "Three bullets. We're in the middle of the city and he was stealing our weapons…"

Daryl says nothing.

"Did you think I was gonna kill him?"

I would have. Is that bad?

Daryl is still silent, he barely glances at her as we turn a corner.

"I was aiming for his _leg._ Could that have killed him? Maybe, I don't know, but he was stealing our weapons."

We get to a door and Daryl tries to open it; locked. He pulls out his knife.

"He's just a damn kid."

"Without weapons we could _die._ " Carol glances at me. " _Beth_ could die."

"We'll find more weapons."

Daryl struggles with the knife, trying to pry the door open, so I take one of mine and hold it out to him. "Try this." He glances at it, sheaths his knife and grabs it.

"I don't want you to die," Carol says. "I don't want Beth to die, or Michael, or anybody at the church, but I can't stand around and watch it happen, either. I _can't._ That's why I left." Carol is pacing now, back and forth, back and forth.

"I just had to _be_ somewhere else-"

"Well you ain't somewhere else," Daryl interrupts. He yanks the knife from the door and spins around to face her. "You're right here. _Tryin_ '." And then he goes back to the door.

Carol shakes her head. "Look, you're not who you were, and neither am I."

The door opens. Daryl hands me my knife back.

"I don't know if I believe in God anymore or heaven, but if I'm going to hell I'm making damn sure I'm holding it off for as long as I can."

Will I go to hell if there even is one? My father was Jewish. He believed in Hell. Heaven, too, but he rarely ever spoke of that. Maybe he's in either of those places right now. I'll never know, though.

We go through the door. Get down the building, out into the city and make our way to the bridge as quickly as we can. It takes us a while, since we have to dodge around walker clusters and wreckage, but eventually we're on the bridge and making our way to the van.

Daryl opens the door. "Alright, let's get this done."

"It's not stable," Carol protests. "I'm lighter." Daryl looks at her, then hops into the van. Carol and I look at each other.

"Keep watch," she tells me, and I nod. She gets inside, the van shudders but doesn't fall. A cluster, drawn by the sound, approaches. I try to do a headcount, stop when I get to twelve.

"Guys!" I call. "Walkers are almost here!" I look to the other side and there's more, way more than twelve. " _Guys_!"

Carol is out, then Daryl, and we're fighting off the dead. My Colt runs out of ammo, way too fast for my own comfort, so I resort to using my bow… but before I can even nock the arrow, Daryl is pulling me into the van and we're shutting the doors.

"Anything we can use?!" Carol asks. The van shakes and I almost fall into Daryl.

"Nothin' but what we got-"

And then Daryl stares ahead, through the windshield, and he's climbing into the driver's seat.

"Buckle up," he tells us. My stomach churn but I climb into one of the back seats on Carol's side and strap the seatbelt around me.

"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ ," I groan. There's a figurine of Mother Mary on the dashboard. I stare at it, even when the van screeches and Daryl is telling us to hold on. I think Carol is crying. The van leans forward, I feel my gut slosh around and a scream rises in my throat because then, then it's falling, falling through the air quicker than a bullet train. Something crashes, we hit the ground and my scream is cut off with a yelp; the van rocks back and forth one, two, three times, and stills.

"We're okay," Carol breathes. Something slams into the windshield; a head explodes. The walkers from the bridge continue to tumble down, landing on the van again and again and I have to hold my ears until it's over. Carol and Daryl climb out, and when I look down to unbuckle my seatbelt I let out a soft, "Oh."

There's an arrow sticking out of my side.

"Daryl," I groan, unbuckling. "Daryl, my- _augh_ -" I leaned forward too much. The back doors are opening up and then there's Daryl, crouching down beside me. He looks from me, to the arrow, then back to me and I feel like throwing up. "I don't even know how…"

"Easy," he murmurs, cutting at my shirt to get a better look at the wound. He examines it but I have to look away because there's a fucking _arrow_ sticking out of me. "It went through," he tells me. Carol's here now, too, looking at it over Daryl's shoulder. She's holding her chest and winces when she moves a certain way, but other than that she looks… fine. But then Daryl grabs the arrow and I can feel it move, so I let out a shriek, grab his hand and try to swat it away because it hurts, it hurts so bad. "We gotta get it out, Michael-"

"Won't that make it bleed worse?!"

"It's jus' a flesh wound. If it nicked any of your organs you'd be bleedin' out already."

"Oh…"

"You ready?"

"Wait, wait- fuck. _Fuck!_ Okay. Do it. Just… just fucking-"

Daryl pulls it out and I have to tell myself he's not tearing a hot bar from my gut.

I can't stop the scream from coming, the tears from pricking at the sides of my eyes. Daryl tosses the arrow to the side and Carol is holding my hand, squeezing it as much as she can and even though it makes me feel weak and not strong at all, it helps. Daryl tells me to take my flannel off, so I ease it away and let him cut it into strips. As he's pressing a fold to the wounds and tying strips around, he says, "We can't stay here. Dead'll be drawn by the crash…"

He ties it tight and I wince, but then it's over and we're leaving. Daryl helps me out of the van, then Carol, and side by side we're walking away from the scene like the three musketeers.

* * *

We stop at a loading dock, hidden behind a cluster of brick industrial buildings.

Daryl tells me they found some kind of lead in the van-Grady Memorial Hospital. But I can barely focus on his words, instead try to keep myself upright and sit down beside Carol when we finally take a break. He makes her drink to prove she's okay, and Carol visibly winces when she swallows.

"How bad is it?" He asks.

"I've had worse."

She pulls her shirt collar down, and I can see a big, purple bruise festering on the right side of her chest. Daryl shakes his head.

"Damn… that was stupid."

"We made good time down," Carol says, because even when we just almost died she's making jokes.

"Who knew falling from a bridge was a good time saver…"

I add to it, because why not.

Daryl scoffs, then sits down on the other side of Carol. Wincing as I move, I take the loose bullets from my bag and start loading them into the Colt's clip. One, two, three, four… and that's that.

"There's only three blocks between the three of us and Grady," she tells us.

"We should find a place nearby. Scope it out, look for anything sketchy." Carol looks at him. There's a scrape above her eye and even more bruises have started showing up on her face.

"You really think we'll find out what we need to know just by watching?"

Daryl reaches over Carol to hand me the canteen. I take it, gulp down some and let it ease my nerves.

"It's where we start. C'mon."

* * *

We find another office building. This one has lobbies and cubicles, a lot different than the other one with paintings and leather armchairs. The door squeaks when it moves but Daryl walks through it anyways and we follow him. There's a walker on the ground with a machete. Daryl takes it, cleaves its face in half and then the room is silent. Carol and I move past it and I'm holding my belly because it still hurts. It was a bitch to climb up the stairs and we even had to take a break (mostly because of me), but we made it up here easy peasy.

"It's them," Carol says. We move forward, looking out the window to stare at a large, high story building. Daryl carries a plastic bag and inside it sits a few small bags of chips.

"We wait. See what we see."

And we do. It's like one of those police stakeouts; we munch on chips and warm water and are quiet for a while. I sit in a chair, let Carol nurse my wound even though she can't do much. It's still bleeding, slowly, and I'm feeling a little queasy but don't tell them. Can't. I have to keep going because we have to find Beth and that's all that matters.

I think I doze off.

"You said I ain't like how I was before?" Someone says-it's Daryl. He must think I'm asleep. I think I was, for a minute. But I don't move, don't open my eyes. I'm comfortable.

"Yeah."

"How was I?"

"It's like you were a kid. Now you're a man."

"What about you?"

Quiet.

"Me and Sophia stayed at that shelter for a day and a half before I went running back to Ed. I went home, I got beat up, life went on, and I just kept _prayin_ ' for something to happen. But I didn't do anything. Not a damn thing. Who I was… _with him_ … she got burned away. And I was happy about that-I mean, not _happy_ , but… And at the Prison, I got to be who I always thought I should be, thought I _should've_ been. And then she got burned away. Everything now, just… _consumes_ you."

"Well, hey… we ain't ashes."

 _Yet_ , I want to say. But I don't. Won't let myself. I can't lose that hope, right?

A door far away shuts. I'm jolted out of that half-asleep state I was in and dropped to my feet beside Carol. She hands me my pack and my Colt and then we're off, following the sound as I rub the sleep from my eyes.

As we go further into the building I can hear more noise. Thudding, a walker snarling. We turn a corner and there's the source of the noise, one of the dead pinned to a drywall column with a crossbow bolt.

"Is that yours?" Carol asks. I look at the green and white fletchings and yeah, it looks to be one of his.

"Yeah."

Daryl kills the walker, yanks the bolt from it, and then automatic gunfire is bouncing down the halls. Carol runs forward ahead of us and then, from around a corner, a walker is _thrown_ into her. They both tumble to the ground and she's screaming, and I don't even think about it when I toss myself into the walker. We both go over Carol and onto the carpet and I feel fire in my side, feel the cry force its way out of my mouth, and then Daryl's cleaving the walker's face off and I'm clutching my belly. I crawl over, pat at the top of Carol's chest like a madman because I swear the walker bit into her; but there's no bite, no blood, just bruises and dirt and a woman telling me she's okay.

Daryl's already chasing after whoever did this. Carol and I help each other up, move on down the hall. There's a grunt and a crash and when we get into a room we see Daryl, standing over a teenager, pinned down by a bookshelf. A walker paws at a door that's just barely inched open, clawing its way through it.

And then I see Daryl's crossbow on the ground. Right beside it is Carol's rifle.

"P-please," the teenager says. He has dark skin and a beat up face and he looks like he's getting crushed. "I had to protect myself."

I recognize his voice. Blink a few times, and then I feel anger rising in my chest because _this_ is the asshole that took their weapons. Held them at gunpoint and tried getting them killed.

"Why you _followin' us_?!" Daryl snarls at him. He hands Carol her rifle.

"I didn't, I didn't I swear! I thought you followed me!"

"Bullshit," Daryl spits. He leans over, grabs a pack of cigarettes.

"Come on, man- please-" the teenager begs, but I've had enough.

"Fuck you," I say to him. "You almost got us killed!"

The walker gets just a bit further through the door. Has its arm and head through the gap.

"I'm _sorry_! Please, please…"

"Nah," Daryl says. He puts the cigarette up to his lips. "I already helped you once. It ain't happenin' again."

Daryl lights his cigarette, bends down. "Have fun with hoss over there."

"No, nonono, please, no _please, I'm sorry!_ Please!"

Daryl walks away and I want to, too, but I don't. I can't, because even though my wound is in pain and I want to curl up into a ball and sleep the hurt away, I can't let him die. Not like this. Not defenseless. Despite all that anger and all that hurt, I can't.

It makes me feel weak. But I think Carol is thinking the same thing, too, because she calls out for Daryl and tells him to stop. She sounds so weak and frail but I probably do as well. Daryl looks back at her like she's insane.

"You and Michael almost _died_ because of him!"

"But we didn't!"

Daryl's eyes flicker to me, then the teenager.

"Nah. Let him be."

"Daryl!"

The walker falls through the door. Lands on the bookshelf, grabs at the teenagers collar and pulls it away. I'm about to put a bullet in its cranium when Daryl shoots a bolt into it.

Carol drags the walker body away. We get down, all three of us lift the shelf up, and the teenager is dragging himself out.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he pants. Breathing hard and loud. Daryl ignores him, walks straight over to me and Carol.

"Y'okay?" He asks us.

"I'm still here."

I wince. Grab my side but nod.

"Gotta be."

"I gotta go," the teen says all of a sudden. He mutters it, again and again like a mantra. He'd pulled himself off the ground, clambered over to the window and is staring out it like he's looking for something. "They're gonna come. They probably heard the shot. If they find me…"

"Who?" Daryl asks.

"Them, the people at the hospital."

Carol and I look at each other.

Daryl stops him from moving any further. "Wait, waitwaitwait, just tell us- is there a blonde girl there, you see a blonde girl?"

 _"Beth?_ "

Beth.

Our Beth.

My Beth.

Carol and Daryl share a glance and then I'm there, stomping right up in front of the teen and glaring at him like he isn't a good seven or eight inches taller than me.

"Is she still there?" I ask him. I'm manic, my eyes are wide, they might be bloodshot because they itch and are hurting. "Beth, is she still at the hospital?"

"You know her?"

" _Is she still there_?!"

"Yes, yes-she helped me get out but she's still there."

Oh, God. Oh my God. OhmygodohmygodohmygodBeth…

Carol looks out the window. "They're coming."

The teenager pushes past me and I want to stop him, but I'm too weak. "We gotta go now. We gotta go, we gotta go," he repeats, and we follow him all the way down to the bottom lobby.

"The building next door has a basement, it's clear. We'll be safe," he tells us. I notice he has a limp, and he tries to run but ends up tripping over himself and tumbling to the ground.

"Go, I got him," Daryl tells us, so we go. Carol pushes past the door and I stay, holding it open, and I only get one glance back at Daryl and the teenager before there's a loud _bang_ and tires are screeching. I look over, my eyes go wide, because Carol is falling to the ground and a car just _fucking hit her._

I can't see straight. There's blood dripping from my hands, pooling around my gut but I ignore it, stumble over to her and don't even stop when two policemen jump out of the car with a stretcher. One of them walks up to me, right in between me and Carol. I have to get to her, have to get to her before _they_ get her. I try hitting him, try to stop him and move him away, but all I get is a fist to the face and…

* * *

When I wake, it's dark. I'm lying in a bed that smells too clean and I don't feel right. My belly aches. There's something attached to my hand. I move, whimper when something flares up on my gut, and then someone is beside me and the thing attached to my hand is moving.

"Michael- you're awake… how are you feelin'?"

I look over. Blink a few times, stare, because I think I've seen a ghost.

"Beth?"

* * *

 _"Trouble on my left, trouble on my right,_

 _I been facing trouble almost all my life,_

 _my sweet love, won't you pull me through?_

 _Everywhere I look I catch a glimpse of you_ _…"_

* * *

 **Hello, all! As you may or may not be able to tell, we're almost near the end of the story; only a chapter and a half is left (more on that with the next upload) of** _ **A World Alone**_ **! I'm so incredibly excited to share the conclusion of this arc and to tease what may come next. That being said, my next upload will be the "chapter and a half"-a sort of interim part 2, if you wish to call it that, and immediately after will be the last chapter. Thank you all for the reviews and the favorites, it means everything to me. Until next time!**


	21. Twenty One: Smoke and Mirrors

_**Chapter Twenty-One: Intermission II - Smoke and Mirrors**_

 _"This is my word, this is my way,_

 _show me a sign, sweep me away,_

 _this is my word, heartbreaker, gatekeeper,_

 _I'm feelin' far away I'm feelin' right there._

 _Deep in my heart, deep in my mind,_

 _take me away, take me away…"_

* * *

She watched the cops cart them in and it was like a slap to the face.

First, Carol; she was beaten and bloodied and Beth almost didn't recognize her. They brought her into exam room two, Edwards ran in afterwards. And then, _then_ came him.

Michael.

She'd been on her way to kill him. Not Michael; _Edwards._ She had a shiny pair of scissors down by her side and she was ready, she was going to do it, but then her past caught up to her in the most unsuspecting of ways.

Michael, like Carol, was equally as dirty; not as beaten, but still bloody and delirious. Half awake, half asleep, mumbling about walkers and gunshots and Carol. He didn't see her as they carried him into the room across from Carol's and despite the shock of seeing him, seeing both of them after _all this time_ … she was glad.

He didn't know what these people were like. _Use everything you can use._ A motto, a mantra, words they lived by. They were manipulators.

 _Dawn_ was a manipulator. And she didn't want her anywhere near them.

* * *

Beth snuck into his room that night.

She'd heard Edwards talking earlier; he'd gotten a puncture wound to the left side, along with other scrapes and bruises and bumps littered all over his body. She sat down beside his bed, in the dark, and she held his hand. He'd been given a sedative so Edwards could patch him up.

The room was quiet; there was no hum of the hospital machines because he was deemed unworthy of them. He could breath fine on his own, only needed an IV drop and some bandages and he should be fine in the morning. That's what Edwards said.

Not like she believed him. She had to go see for herself.

And there he was. Lying in that bed, asleep, almost peaceful. She hoped his dreams were allowing that, but she doubted it. Sleep for him was either dreamless or filled with demons.

She pushed his bangs away from his face. There was a gash on his temple, bandaged up but still there. His face was so weary, crinkled by his dreams, and she hated it. Hated how hurt he was, how he'd been through hell and back probably looking for her…

He laid there and she made a promise to herself. That she'd be strong; be the best she could. Michael was hurt, Carol was hurt. They were in no condition to fight.

But she was.

So she'd fight. For them, for her father, her sister. For herself.

An hour after Beth made her promise, Michael woke up.

* * *

 _"Dream maker, dream taker,_

 _open up my mind,_

 _all I believe, is it a dream,_

 _that comes crashing down on me?_

 _All that I hope, is it just smoke and mirrors...?"_


	22. Twenty Two: A World Alone

_**Chapter Twenty-Two - FINALE: A World Alone**_

 _"I know we're not everlasting,_

 _we're a trainwreck waiting to happen._

 _One day the blood won't flow so gladly,_

 _one day we'll all get still_

 _when people are talking, people are talking,_

 _get still…"_

* * *

"Beth?"

I can't believe it. Can't believe myself, because there's _Beth_ , sitting right there and holding my hand like we haven't been separated for weeks. There are stitched-up cuts on her face and a cast is around her wrist, but I don't care, don't give a flying _fuck_ because _she's right there_.

"Beth," I breathe, leaning up, trying to get to her, I try to ignore the hurt but it's too much and somehow I end up right back onto the bed. So Beth comes to me, her face pinched with worry.

"I'm here," she tells me, her forehead pressed against mine, "I'm right here. It's okay."

I think I'm crying, pulling her into me, squeezing her so tight I worry that I'll crush her. But I hold her, and she holds me, and when she pulls away we're kissing for the first time in almost a month. She tastes like Beth and I really know it's her, not some figment of my self-destructive imagination that's out to get me. It's _Beth_.

"Where," I start to ask when she's leaned too far away, "Where am I?"

"Grady Memorial," Beth answers. "A hospital in Atlanta."

Everything is foggy. I try to sit up and it gets dark around my eyes. Beth takes me by the shoulders, presses me back down into the bed so gently I think I almost want to lie back down.

"Easy," she tells me. "They gave you sedatives. It'll take a bit for 'em to wear off."

I blink the dark and the foggy away, just a little bit. Squint at her. "Sedatives?"

"Yeah, Edwards-... the doctor here. He patched up your wound."

Beth glances down at my midsection. I lift up the covers, which are way too clean to be at the end of the world, and I see that I'm dressed in pale blue nurses scrubs. I move my legs a bit, wiggle my feet and toes. All there. Move my hand down and push on my belly. I get a little sting in return and have to wince.

"How'd you get here, Michael?" Beth asks. I look at her and I still can't believe it's her, god it's really her.

"Daryl, he… he told us about you. That some car with a white cross took you."

Her eyes get bigger. "Daryl? He's alive?"

I nod. "He's alive, and… your sister! Beth, Maggie's okay. Glenn, Rick and Carl, Judith, Michonne, Tyreese and Sasha and Bob, they all made it out."

Beth's face tells me she can barely believe it. Maybe she thought it could never happen-just like I did. "You all found each other?"

"It's… a long story, but yeah. We did."

She clenches her jaw and maybe there's a tug of a smile on her lips, but something is missing from her. She's… so different. Changed. Her eyes are colder, still piercing but so much colder, and for a moment I think something bad has happened to her.

 _Besides her father getting decapitated right in front of her?_

"But you and Carol?"

I blink. "Daryl saw one of them, another car like the one that took you. He, Carol and I, we followed it all the way here as far as we could. We got into Atlanta, but we ran out of gas and spent the night in the city. Yesterday, this guy stole our guns, but we found him and he said he was running from them. From here. Grady. He said he knew you, Beth."

Beth blinks.

"What was his name?"

I try to remember. Everything is still a little fuzzy.

"I don't think he told us."

"What did he look like?"

"A little bit older than us. He was black. Beat up, had a limp-"

"Noah. His name's Noah. He was here before me. We were gettin' out together, but… I didn't make it."

Maybe it makes me a terrible person, but I wish Beth had gotten out instead of him. He caused us so much trouble, nearly got us killed, made us fall off a bridge in a van…

"Is Carol okay?" I ask. Beth's gaze changes.

"She's… alive. Hurt. But she's alive."

I chew on my lip. Beth didn't say she was okay and it scares me.

"They hit her with a car."

"Who did?"

"Those _cops_. They just… ran right into her."

Beth watches me. She glances over at the door; it's made of wood and it looks heavy, and there's a blank dry erase board on it. The rest of the room is bare, but there's an IV hooked up to my arm and a drip beside my bed.

"This isn't a good place, Michael."

I look at her.

"These people… they say they help other survivors. But they _keep_ you here, even if you wanna leave. Say you _owe_ them because they saved you… listen, Michael-" Beth takes my hand. "You can't let them know you know me. You can't tell them _anythin_ ' that's true, okay? You make somethin' up. Tell them Carol is your mom, or… _somethin_ '. They'll use everythin' they can against you, especially Dawn."

This side of Beth I've never seen before. She's cautious, cunning. _Strong_. I'm shocked at this change, but… there's something different about us all every single day. The way she says Dawn tells me there's no friendship between them. "Who's Dawn?"

"She's the leader here. You'll probably meet her in the mornin'." Beth glances over at the door again. "I have to go. I had to sneak in here to see you."

I take her hand, won't let go because I _just_ got here, I _just_ got to see her. "No, Beth, don't. Please. I… I just found you."

Beth stands up, leans over me to press her lips to my forehead. "I have to. They can't know, remember? I'll see you again tomorrow, I promise. Just… be strong, Michael. You have to be strong."

I nod. I nod and I nod and I nod, I swallow that big ugly lump in my throat and let Beth leave. Watch her open the door just a bit and slip through it like it's the easiest thing in the universe, then the door closes and I'm left alone.

I don't know how. Maybe I'm so exhausted from yesterday, maybe the sedatives are still in me, but it doesn't take me very long to fall asleep.

* * *

A few minutes after I wake up, there's a stranger in my room.

I'd been lying in bed. I looked at my bandages, felt the one around my head and made sure I wasn't going to die, and then the door opened. I half expected Beth to walk in, but no, she didn't. A woman dressed like a cop came in through the doorway, her face expressionless and cold. The way she walked held an aura of authority and confidence and it scared me. The door shut behind her and we watched each other for a moment. Here we are.

"You're awake," she states. I don't say anything. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Michael."

"Michael. My name's Dawn Lerner, I'm a police officer. Do you have any idea where you are?"

I do. I'm in a hospital with my girlfriend who I'm not supposed to know and a woman that I should say I'm related to, who fell from a bridge with me and was hit by a car; and before that, I was in a million other places. But I say none of that, instead I shake my head. "No."

"You're at Grady Memorial Hospital in downtown Atlanta. My men found you just a half mile away from here with another woman-you two were pretty banged up. Care to tell me how that happened?"

Dawn's hair is a dark sienna and it's pulled back in a tight bun. Her eyes are calculated, observant, and I don't trust them. I lean up, lift myself back and rest against the bed.

"We were running from the dead and holed up in an office building for the night. Got caught off guard by a few biters. We were leaving when your men hit her."

Dawn's eyebrows lift up. "All those wounds from just a few rotters?"

I don't like the way she says this.

"She fell down a flight of stairs."

"She?"

"My aunt. Carol."

Dawn raises her chin. "And what about yours? That wound in your side?"

"A man shot me with an arrow."

"Is that how you got that bow?"

I nod.

"He give you that gash on your head, too?"

Nod again.

"You kill him?"

I blink at her. Dawn looks back expectantly.

"Yes."

Dawn watches me. Her eyes make my skin crawl and I feel less like a human and more like a specimen under a microscope with each second that passes.

"How long ago did you try to kill yourself?"

This catches me off guard. Dawn notices, she must, because she points a finger at my wrist. The bandanna itches like it wants to get away from her, too. She takes a step forward, puts her hands on her hips. _I'm waiting._

"Few months ago."

"You ever try again after that?"

"No."

"Think about doing it again?"

"No."

I don't think Dawn believes me.

"See, Michael, here? We're all about using whatever we can. We don't _waste_. And I just want to make sure you won't be doing anything like that again while you're with us. Or at all, really."

"Why do you care?"

Dawn's eyes get a bit wider, more intense. I think they're cutting into me. She takes another step forward. "I _care_ , because we've used resources on you we could have saved for another patient. That IV in your arm could've gone to someone else who actually _wants_ the help we offer. So, Michael, before I go bring in our doctor to give you more of our medicine and more of his time… I'm gonna ask.

Are.

You.

Going.

To.

Kill.

Yourself?"

Dawn watches me. I watch her back. We are two bird watchers, unblinking, and in this moment I think Dawn is a predatory hawk and I'm an itty bitty thing not worth her time. The room is smothering, I want to leave, go get Beth and cart Carol out and find our people again. Because we did it once. What's to stop us from doing it again?

"No," I tell Dawn. I mean it, I do, but I wish I couldn't give her the satisfaction. I can tell something in her expression changes, eases up just a bit, but she's still a cold bitch at the center. I'm sure of that.

"Good. Dr. Edwards will be in shortly."

* * *

Doctor Edwards is a man who has cold hands. He's balding, wears glasses and a doctor's coat with his name tag still on it. He's nice enough when he comes in, even knocks for me, too. He looks at the wound on my side; it's red and puffy and angry looking and it stings when I move too fast or too much. Edwards tells me that I'm lucky, it barely missed a major organ that would've bled me out in minutes. I'm given a close-to-empty bottle of antibiotics and told to take two a day, and that I'll be staying in bed for the rest of the day and tomorrow. I accept this with nods and half smiles and a big 'thank you, thank you so much' at the end to wrap it all up. Gotta make a good impression, right?

I ask him about Carol. Edwards' face gets soft then, like he's gotta tell a kid their puppy died. He says she doesn't look good, that she hasn't woken up yet, but that if she's as strong as I think then she'll pull through. So I nod again and before Edwards leaves he gives me a tray of food. There's mixed vegetables and a mug of water and some kind of meat, too, and despite my growing distaste for this place I eat. Eat it all up and help force it down with some water, and then I lie in this unfamiliar bed and look at these all-too-clean walls and blink my tears away. Carol will pull through, our people will come to get us, and everything will be okay in the end. It has to be-we've gone through so much already, too much hurt and pain and suffering, to lose this battle now.

Haven't we?

Time passes. Late morning turns into afternoon. I have no visitors, like people are supposed to have during hospital stays, and I'm left with my thoughts and my worries and myself. I re-tie my bandanna. I play _Be Good_ on my bed sheets, tap my fingers where the keys should be. At one point I stand up, stretch my legs and wiggle my toes and use the bathroom. There's running water and electricity here, I notice. Grady has a good setup.

 _If only they had a leader that wasn't Dawn._

When I've slinked back into my bed and finished off the mug of water, someone enters my room. I expect it to be Edwards, maybe even Dawn herself here to torment me again, but to my surprise it's Beth.

"Hey," she says, shutting the door behind her. "How are you feelin'?"

"Better," I tell her. "A little worse for wear, but… better." She walks over, examines my face and takes my hand.

"I need your help with somethin'," she tells me. "It's medicine for Carol. They took her off the machines and won't give her anythin', but Dawn gave me the key to the medicine locker." As if I need proof, she pulls out a key from her pocket and shows it to me.

"She just... _gave_ it to you?"

Beth shrugs. "I might have to do somethin' else later on down the road, but… it's worth it. It's helpin' her." She pauses. "I'm gonna really, really need your help with this next part."

My stomach churns with anxiety. "Doing what?"

Beth tilts her head to the side. "Think you can put on a show for me?"

* * *

It's the first time I've stepped outside of my room. The walls are barren, the floors are white and pristine, wires run across the roof duct taped to the ceiling tiles. There are others here, survivors and patients left behind dressed in nursing scrubs and hospital gowns. I walk ahead of Beth by a couple of yards, and after glancing back at her once, I stop in the middle of the hallway and lean against the wall. She walks by, turns the corner, and then I let out the most dramatic groan ever. I clutch my stomach, cry out and squeeze my eyes shut, and in no time there's a collection of cops and some wards by my side. Some ask me what's wrong, others yell to get Edwards. I slide down to the floor, gripping my belly like my life depends on it. This lasts right up until Beth walks by again; she has something clutched in her hand, and when she nods at me as she goes by I start to calm down. I take a few shaky breaths for added effect, then slowly get back up onto my feet.

"Sorry… sorry," I tell the small group. "I don't know what overcame me…"

* * *

I meet Beth in exam room two. She's gathered her things, concealed them in a plush white towel, and I keep watch as she gets to work. It's hard to not stare at Carol the entire time; she looks so small and pale under the dim overhead lights and the silence is what kills me. It hurts my chest, coils around my heart and squeezes again and again with each pump of blood that flows through my veins. When Beth is finished hooking Carol up to the IV and giving her the medicine, we sit beside her bed and watch her chest rise and fall slowly. At some point Beth takes Carol's hand, then mine.

"Did you know her daughter?" I ask after some time. Beth looks over at me.

"No, not really. I… only saw her after she'd turned into a walker. It was early on, a couple months after everythin'."

"Was she alone when you met her?"

Beth shakes her head. "I was with Maggie, my daddy, a few others at our farm. They showed up and lived with us for a while, Rick, his family and his group. Sophia-her daughter-..." Beth's face pinches up. "At first, my daddy thought the walkers could be cured. That they were just sick. My mom and my brother had turned, and we locked them up in our barn with any other walkers that wandered onto the farm. Sophia… she was one of them."

"Oh…"

Beth says nothing for a while. "When one of Rick's friends broke the walkers out and they killed them all… I don't know. I guess I was just afraid of livin'. It was when I tried killin' myself. But… as soon as I did it, I regretted it. … I used to be weak. I didn't know how to fight, I was _scared_ of everythin'. But not now." She looks over at me and there's a fierceness in her eyes that can only be rivaled by the strongest of wills. "We don't get to cry anymore, Michael."

I grip her hand. Her cast is frayed and torn and dirty, but I hold it anyways, let it tether me to the ground when I say, "Okay."

* * *

Beth and I leave Carol's room and someone's yelling across the hall.

"No, Percy, tell me, should I use smaller words?"

I recognize him as the cop that hit me in the face. He's got dark hair and his face looks like it's shaped into a permanent scowl. In front of him, an older man with snow white hair and glasses stands cowering away from him.

"Is the directive 'fix the hole in my sleeve' too _complicated_ for you?"

"I'm sorry, I forgot…"

"Well here's an idea." The cop shoves Percy to the ground. " _Don't forget_!"

Dawn walks through a doorway behind them. She goes by, barely glancing as Percy struggles to get back up, and that's when the cop notices us standing there.

"What about you two?" He asks. "Either of you good with a needle and thread?"

"I need Beth," Dawn says, "Sorry, we have a lot of work to do." She passes by and Dawn tells her to come on, so with a reluctant glance she follows Dawn down the corridor. That leaves me, standing in the hallway with an old man and a man who thinks he's still a cop.

"So?" He asks. "You sew?"

I gulp. Nod.

"Well come the fuck on. You can do it in my room."

I come the fuck on. A part of me thinks I should say that Edwards wants me resting, but this guy doesn't look like he's the kind of person to say no to. Percy is still getting up, so I go to help him, but the older man waves me off.

"Go. Best to not disobey O'Donnell."

"You're sure?"

"I'll be fine, kid. Go."

I do. I wish I didn't have to, but I do. O'Donnell leads me into his room, where a shirt is splayed out over a desk next to an open sewing kit. Immediately I sit down, get to work as fast as I can. The sooner I'm finished the sooner I can get the hell out of here. And I'm quick, I make sure to not botch the sew, do it as well as I can, and when I'm finished O'Donnell examines it right beside me.

"Good enough. C'mon. I need your help with a few other things…"

* * *

A few other things turns out to be a whole lot of bullshit.

O'Donnell making his rounds, giving me things to carry, useless shit that could have been done on his own time. He stops quite a few times to talk with the other officers-he even shares a beer with one and I stand there, looking awkward and staring at the sneakers on my feet. I think I hear them mention something about a woman named _Joan_. But then we're off again, going back to his room to drop off his things, and we stop at a pair of double doors. O'Donnell glances through them.

"What the hell?"

I look over, glance through them too. Dawn and Beth are down the hall, in front of an open elevator shaft and talking. O'Donnell steps forward, opens the door and slinks through like a tiger. I follow him after putting his shit down onto the floor.

"-I closed up my office and I fixed it before it could become a problem," Dawn tells Beth. "You're a _cop killer_."

"I would never _kill_ somebody!"

"But you did. What do you think would happen if the others found out? I _protected_ you. And we helped that patient. I didn't have to, I _wanted_ to, but there's a way things have to happen here. Don't you get that?"

I let the door shut. Let it make that loud sound, clang against metal, because Dawn and Beth have already said too much. O'Donnell has heard enough, enough to know they've disobeyed their stupid rules, and he's fuming. I can feel the rage flowing off of him like flames and I inch away from him. Beth stands up, she and Dawn turn to face us. Dawn's eyes flicker to me and I shrink away. She stares O'Donnell down.

"What are you gonna do?" She asks.

"No, Dawn, what are _you_ gonna do? Starting with her."

"She's my ward. It's my call."

"Fine. But your people deserve to know who they're working for." O'Donnell steps out of the shadows. The tension is so thick here that I almost choke on it. "So. You gonna tell them, or am I?"

Dawn tilts her head. Takes a few steps forward. "You don't get to _threaten_ me."

"That's not a threat. But these are the facts. You look like _shit_. The guys are talking, they think you're cracking. This is Hanson all over again."

Beth and I look at each other. I move to the side, press my arm against the wall. Let it guide me forward, away from O'Donnell and away from the tension and to Beth.

"It's time to make a change," O'Donnell says, then turns to the doors. Dawn's eyes get wide and then she's calling out for him, drawing her pistol and aiming it right at him.

"You're wrong. I'm _nothing_ like Hanson. I was the one who killed him, remember that? I was the only one who could go through with it." Her eyes are unblinking, cold, just like before, just like when I first met her. I keep following the wall, let it guide me past a supply closet.

O'Donnell turns. He looks at Dawn's gun, then her, and his eyes narrow. "Lower your weapon, Dawn. All I have to do is shout."

"All I have to do is say is you came at me. Beth, Michael, get out of the way."

I move. All the way past the supply closet, around Dawn and over to where Beth stands in the corner of the room.

"You're not gonna do this," O'Donnell tells Dawn.

"You're not giving me a _choice_! Go." Dawn motions to the other side of the corridor with her gun. Slowly, O'Donnell starts to move.

"We were rookies together. You knew my wife. You were _here_ in this hospital, having cigars with me in the _parking lot_ when my kid was born!"

" _Don't,_ " Dawn orders. "That guy is _gone._ " She sounds broken. Angry. Hurt and tired and all of the above. "We're supposed to _protect_ people. To help them. But _look_ _at_ _you_. You're beating the old man. You're _laughing_ with your buddies about that _poor girl_ getting _raped._ That's who you are now."

"So who the hell are you?"

Who am I?

"Someone who's not gonna let that happen anymore."

Someone who just wants to survive. Who wants to keep the people he cares about safe. Who wants to leave this godless place, find a new home with his people and play piano with his girlfriend.

"That's not what this is about," O'Donnell whispers. His face goes soft but I know it's not the truth. "It's about holding on to what you have."

A tear strings down Dawn's face. "What the hell do I _have_?"

I have Beth. I have Daryl. I have Len's bow and my knives and I think that's enough.

"This isn't you," O'Donnell says. "After Hanson, you changed-"

He leaps forward, swings and Dawn's gun flies out of her hands. It goes across the hall, right past us and into the elevator shaft. The two of them fight; O'Donnell gets the upper hand, then Dawn, and watching this is like choosing between the lesser of two evils. Dawn knees him in the gut but then he swings her around, slams her into a wall and lifts her up by the throat. This is when I make my move; I go at O'Donnell, try to grab at his shoulder and tear him away, but he elbows me in the chest and I go sprawling to the floor.

"Stay in your lane, fucker!" He orders, and then Dawn punches him in the throat. He stumbles back, choking, Dawn kicks him and then he's standing right in front of the elevator shaft.

" _BETH_!" Dawn screams. Beth charges forward and shoves O'Donnell, and with a yell he's falling down six stories and splattering all over the basement floor.

I stand up. Dawn and I move, go stand in a row and look down at the walkers that swarm O'Donnell's body.

"Thank you," Dawn tells us. "Both of you."

* * *

We left the elevator hall without another word. Dawn took the key from Beth, locked it up, and then she went back to her office. Beth walked me to my room and here we are, standing in front of my door in an empty hallway with empty eyes.

"Are… are you okay?" I ask her. It's a stupid fucking question, so dumb because I know I could answer it myself, but I still ask it because I don't know what to say.

"I will be. I just… I need to go watch over Carol. I don't trust any of them around her."

I nod. "Want me to come with?"

Beth shakes her head. "Might wanna keep your distance. I'm a cop killer now, remember?"

"Hey. Stop. O'Donnell got what he deserved."

"It ain't that, Michael. It's… I did it for _her._ Dawn. First person I killed was to save the person who's keeping us locked up here in the first place."

I watch Beth and then I pull her into my arms. "Then make it about you. Let it change you. Learn from it."

I pull away. She blinks a few times. "I'm gonna go. I just… need some time to think. I'll come see you later." And after glancing around, she leans forward and presses her lips against mine.

"Be good," I tell her.

"Always am."

And then she's gone. I'm reminded of our time at the Prison, of her walking me to my cell and us acting like a couple of love drunk kids in a world gone mad.

Now we've grown up.

We're changed.

We're tougher, and meaner, and both of us have killed. But that just means we'll be ready for what comes next.

A little while later, I decide resting is boring. I take my medicine and leave my room, go across the hall to Carol's. The door is open a bit and I can hear voices coming from inside.

"I'm not stupid. You know her. You know Michael, too, and somehow all three of you wound up here."

So much for hiding the truth.

"Maybe that means something. Beth, you can be a part of this thing. All of you. This is important-maybe the most important thing you do in your life. And what you did back there… Gorman and O'Donnell hurt people. The world didn't lose anything when they died."

But will the world lose anything when you die, Dawn?

"And you're wrong about back there, I didn't use you. And I _will remember._ "

* * *

Carol woke up.

Dawn came to get me but I was already there, standing outside the doorway; she looked at me for a moment, then asked, "Is she really your aunt?"

"No," I said. Dawn smirked and then she was gone, so I went inside.

Carol is weak. She tries leaning up on her own, tries to push herself up, but Beth and I stop her.

"Wait a sec," I murmur, gently pressing her back down into the mattress. She blinks at me a few times, squints.

"Michael?"

I can't help but smile. "In the flesh. And guess who else is here?"

Carol turns her head to look at Beth. For a moment she's silent, but then she reaches out to take Beth's good hand and hold it as tight as she can.

"You're okay…"

"We all are," Beth says. Carol glances around the room.

"Daryl…?"

"He got out," I say. "I don't know where he is, or Noah. But they're gone."

"Good… good."

The door opens. Dawn walks through and her expression is no nonsense.

"Your people are here to get you. Gather your things and meet us in the hall in fifteen minutes."

Dawn turns on her heel and leaves. Just like that. Beth and I glance at each other and it's almost as if this is a dream. _Your people are here to get you._

I do as I'm told and go back to my room. My clothes, weapons, satchel-it's all there, sitting on my bed and waiting for me. Everything is still in it; notebook, picture, books. My mother's locket it still around my neck. These itchy scrubs come right off, replaced with Gerald's, and it's a relief when I finally have everything on my body again. It's _me_.

Before I leave, I make sure my Colt is loaded and a bullet is chambered.

We all meet in the hall. Beth pushes Carol in a wheelchair. She's dressed in her boots, jeans, a yellow shirt and her gray cardigan and she's just like how I've known her. Escorted by Dr. Edwards, we're led into a narrow corridor where four officers have gathered-including Dawn. For a few minutes we stand there, waiting in the silence, until shadows move behind the doors at the end of the hall. I see Rick peer through the glass and Carol has my hand, along with Beth's fingers that all coil around each other. My belly does somersaults.

Dawn motions for her officers to put their guns away.

"Holster your weapons," she orders into her radio.

The doors open and our people file in. First come Dawn's other officers, but then there's _ours_ ; Rick, Daryl, Sasha, Tyreese, Noah. There are three officers, zip tied and held hostage. I try to find the others-Maggie, Glenn, Michonne. Even Tara and Abraham's crew is missing. It makes me feel weird but I push that thought away because the cops on our side are parting like the red sea. Beth pushes Carol forward.

"They haven't been harmed," Rick says, and _god_ it's so good to hear his voice.

"Where's Lamson?" Dawn asks with a shake of her head.

"Rotters got him," the only female hostage says.

"We saw it go down," another one adds. Dawn watches them.

"Oh."

I don't think she believes them.

"I'm sorry to hear that. He was one of the good guys."

Joe said there weren't good guys anymore. I think a part of me is starting to believe that.

When nobody says anything, Dawn goes, "One of yours for one of mine."

"Alright."

Rick nods to Daryl. He pushes one of the officers forward and then one on our side is taking Carol from Beth, pushing her wheelchair ahead and carrying her bag. They meet at the middle, exchange hostages, and then Carol is safely with our people.

One of the officers nudges me forward. I look around, surprised because I want Beth to go first, but she gives me a reassuring nod and I'm moving even though I don't want to. She should be with me, her hand should be in mine and we should all be leaving the city by now.

Sasha releases her hostage. We cross in the middle, don't make eye contact, keep going until Daryl is taking me by the arm and I'm safe. He looks me over once, twice, and then Rick is squeezing my shoulder before doing the final exchange. I watch Beth move to me. She and I, see, we don't break eye contact once as the exchange happens. I watch for anything, _anything_ that might screw this over. But that doesn't happen. Everything goes by smoothly, Rick kisses the top of Beth's hair and then I finally have her in my hand.

"Glad we could work things out," Dawn says. Rick turns back to her.

"Yeah."

And then we're leaving. Tyreese and Sasha, they're just about at the door. They almost get through.

"Now I just need Noah."

We freeze. I freeze. Beth goes rigid and then we all turn around.

"And then you can leave."

What happened to _I will remember_ , Dawn?

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"Noah was my _ward_. Beth took his place and I'm losing her, so I need him back."

Like hell you do. Like fucking hell-

"Ma'am, please, it's not-" the female hostage starts. Dawn cuts her off with her name.

"My officers put their lives on the line to find him. One of them died."

Noah steps forward. He steps fucking forward, like Dawn has won, he's letting her win this sick power game.

"No," Daryl grunts. He stomps over, goes to stand beside Rick. "He ain't stayin'."

"He's one of mine, you have no claim on him," Dawn says matter of factly.

 _Claim_.

Rick tilts his head to the side. "The boy wants to _go home_ , so you have no claim on him."

And Dawn, her face pinches up and everything is going to hell. "Then we don't have a deal."

" _The deal is done_ -"

"It's okay," Noah stutters. He limps forward, and god I hate that, he limps to the boundary between hope and _use anything you can use_. Rick tries to stop him but it doesn't work. "I gotta do it." He gives Rick his pistol.

Beth takes a few steps up. I go, too, because I don't want to let her go. _I'm not going to_. "It's not okay…" She murmurs. And it isn't.

"It's settled," Dawn says. I wish I could tell her to go fuck herself.

Noah moves on. Barely gets to Dawn before Beth says, "Wait!" and then she's slipping away. Going, going, wrapping her arms around Noah. I think I see metal glint on her wrist but I'm too focused on the way Dawn watches them.

 _Like a smug champion_.

"It's okay," Noah tells Beth.

"I knew you'd be back."

Beth's eyes flicker up to Dawn. There's fire in them, fire cutting through the quiet as she moves away from Noah. Beth does not break eye contact as she takes a few steps towards her, gets right up in Dawn's face. I want her to move, want to go grab her and pull her away, because there is this feeling in my gut.

It is the same thing. The same darkness, the same calm before the storm, that I felt just before her father died.

"I get it now."

There is so much power in Beth. So much grace, adulthood. A newfound courage buzzing around her like electricity. She flicks her wrist and something shiny is in her hand.

Beth brings her fist down onto Dawn's chest. Quick like a spark.

A gunshot goes off.

Beth's head snaps back and a spray of blood flies into the air.

There's that moment again.

That dark, dark place that comes when you've lost something. The feeling of when someone was just here, but now they're not. That even if you still see them, see their skin and their clothes, they're just… _not here_.

Beth falls to the ground. Dawn's eyes are wide. She says something, shakes her head.

I don't know how. Don't know when. Can't remember how this comes to be, why it's me, but I'm raising my Colt, aiming right between the eyes. Eyes that used to belong to a woman so sure of herself, a woman that's now begging for her life.

 _Will the world lose anything when you die, Dawn?_

I pull my trigger. Quick like a spark. Dawn's eye explodes and she's thrown back. Dead.

 _Claimed_.

Somehow we all end up pointing our guns at each other.

"No!" Shepherd orders, "Hold your fire!"

* * *

 _"Your people are here to get you."_

* * *

"It's over! It was just about her."

* * *

 _"Now I just need Noah."_

* * *

"Stand down."

* * *

 _"I get it now."_

* * *

And somehow, I find the courage to look at Beth.

She's lying there, _right_ _there_ , on the floor. Her blood makes trails, dots, little streams across the tile. I stare at it until I step forward, get down and try to pick her up, try to get her off of those too clean floors and into my arms where she belongs, where she's supposed to be, but I can't. I just pull at her too limp arms and tug on her too wet cardigan and I can't, I can't I can't I can't. Can't see anything because I'm crying too hard. These stupid tears won't let me see anything. But then there's Daryl, lifting her up with ease-but there is no ease, really, it's the hardest thing he's had to do and he can't leave without me. I can see the heartbreak in his eyes and I can feel him standing there, waiting for me to get up with them. So I move again, I stand up and I cry and someone has to pull me along as we leave. There is talking but I don't pay attention. All I can watch is Beth's head move from side to side each time Daryl takes a step. Bouncing when we go down a flight stairs, her bangs frame her face almost perfectly, except there's nothing perfect about this at all.

We get out in the parking lot and then I see Maggie, Glenn, Michonne, the others. They're coming, coming for us like they were supposed to, like they always do. Maggie is smiling. But once we're all outside and Maggie sees that Beth isn't walking on her own, when her smile falls and her face completely shifts... her screams shake the entire planet. Rattle it like a child's toy. And I'm here, crying because I don't know what to do, because Beth is unmoving, dead, gone.

Gone like she was never here in the first place.

* * *

 _They sat at the piano, like many days and nights before that, talking about sweet nothings and acting as if they hadn't a care in the world. The subject of hope came up and it was just another debate between them, even if it would later become one of Michael's most cherished memories._

 _"You gotta have hope," Beth said at one point._

 _"Why, though?" Michael asked. "You don't need it. I guess it helps, yeah, but. Sometimes it just leaves you upset when things don't work out the way you want it to."_

 _Beth seemed to think about this for a moment. "I guess. But it gets you goin'-keeps you from stoppin' before you start. That way you don't shoot yourself in the foot."_

 _Michael tilted his head a bit. Ran his fingers over the piano keys and let the candle light flames dance over his eyes._

 _"There's no guarantee, though. No unbreakable promise."_

 _"But you don't know that-and that's the best part, I think. Hope ain't guaranteed, but people still choose to believe in it anyways, 'cause why carry on when you don't have anythin' to work for? The light at the end of the tunnel, the meal at the end of the day."_

 _"Neither of those are guaranteed, either."_

 _Beth smacked Michael on the arm._

 _"Would you stop bein' such a pessimist!"_

 _Michael laughed._

 _"Alright, alright. I'm listening. No pessimism this time."_

 _"I just... I don't know. If somethin' like that-somethin' that could pretty much fall apart at any time-can bring a bunch of strangers together to make places like this... do things like fight off a bunch of walkers and crazed killers and bandits... I think anythin's possible."_

 _Michael looked at her then, watched her shiny blue eyes flicker around as she looked right back at him, and he decided that maybe she was right._

 _"Anything?" He asked._

 _A smile spread over Beth's lips._

 _"Anythin'."_

* * *

 _"Raise a glass, 'cause I'm not done saying it,_

 _they wanna get rough, get away with it,_

 _let 'em talk 'cause we're dancing in this world alone,_

 _world alone,_

 _world alone._

 _All the double-edged people and schemes,_

 _they make a mess then go home and get clean,_

 _you're my best friend, so we're dancing in a world alone,_

 _a world alone,_

 _we're alone…"_

* * *

 **END OF BOOK ONE**

* * *

 **So… this is it. The end of _A World Alone_.**

 **I am… I'm just beyond grateful for everyone's continued support throughout the past few months-hell, the past year. Sticking with me even when I took ages to update, kept changing my ideas and altering storylines, forgetting to proofread before uploading... regardless, I'm so, so, _so_ thankful for each and every one of you. The reviews, the favorites, the follows. It means so much more than any of you might think, so thank you.**

 **To those of you who may have been expecting a happy ending, a different ending to Beth's arc, I'm sorry. I toyed around with saving her briefly, but in the end her death was too important for it to not happen. If this makes you want to stop reading my work, I understand, but I truly hope you stay for the rest of Michael's story.**

 **Chapter one of book two, _Perfect_ _Places_ , will be up soon, so keep an eye out for it. As always-see you on the flip side. Until next time!**


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